


Done My Sentence (but committed no crime)

by SpinnerDolphin



Series: Angel Network [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hell, Hellhounds, London Below, Lucifer really wishes that Nightmare World would stop sending monsters over, M/M, Nightmare World, Puppies, She's also kind of a badass, Trixie gets a little traumatized but she's okay just really scared, Where in the world is the angel Islington?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-02 10:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19196884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpinnerDolphin/pseuds/SpinnerDolphin
Summary: A lot of things go wrong at once. Crowley's not sure if bad things keep happening to Aziraphale because Aziraphale is an idiot, or because bad things are just genuinely happening.Spoilers: Bad things are just genuinely happening.Lucifer really, really, really wishes that Nightmare World would leave them the hell alone. Also, that Michael would bugger off and never come back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND WE'RE BACK! I'm still editing the end, so updates might be a little slow. The story is finished, though!
> 
> Brace yourself; this one's a wild ride, and just a little darker than the others. I am going to warn, though it says in the tags, that Trixie really does have some bad things happen to her, but she comes out okay in the end, and everyone who scared her gets seriously punished. Don't bring your kids to London Below, no matter what the Archangel Michael says. He's a douchebag anyway. (I still recommend his movie; it's lovely) 
> 
> But on the flipside, there's a really, really cute puppy, if I do say so myself. I kept getting distracted as I wrote this because I kept having to google puppies (RESEARCH!!) and they were so cute I just can't deal. Please, do yourself a favor, and google Beauceron puppies. Because OH MY GOD. I need twenty of them, please and thank you.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: There are footnotes in this, and I have learned how to fix them!! But they're still under construction in this fic. If you read this story chapter by chapter, they work just fine. If you show entire work, they're going to throw you back to the wrong place. Bear with me, here.

Crowley looked at the letter. He read it again. It didn’t get any better.

“Crow _ley,_ ” whined Trixie, “You said you’d teach me how to scare the plants!”

Crowley swallowed. He looked at the girl.

Beatrice Decker was eleven. She was the same age as the antichrist, though Adam would remain eleven for as long as he wanted, and the girl would grow whether she liked it or not. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about her—except that she, like her mother, was totally immune to certain types of temptation. She could be left alone for very short stretches, but Lucifer had taken Chloe out to dinner, and had called on Crowley to watch her. Apparently Mazikeen was hunting a bounty, and the girl wouldn’t settle for anything less than a demon.

Weird kid.

He really had promised her he’d teach her how to wrestle a plant into submission, but then Zephyr had frolicked up to him and deposited a letter in his lap.

Hearing from Castiel was a pleasure. Except that Castiel usually sent his letters to Aziraphale.

“I—” Crowley said, and his voice cracked.

Trixie frowned. “Are you okay?”

Absolutely not.

“I think,” he managed, “That I need to call your mum.”

“But she’s on a date with Lucifer,” Trixie said. “Do you know how long I had to watch them be sad at each other? They need to go on a date. Are you crying?”

“Of course not. Demons d-don’t cry,” Crowley rasped. He was probably crying. 

“Crowley?”

“Will you get me my phone, please?” he asked. If he moved, he might fall over.

Trixie did as she was told.

Crowley looked back at the letter. His vision blurred.

 _Something’s wrong,_ jumped out at him.

_A letter from Aziraphale_

_Like a last Will and Testament, Crowley_

_What does it mean for you when an angel is recalled? For us it means Reeducation and if Aziraphale is to be Reeducated_

_Please save him_

Trixie tugged on his sleeve. He took his phone. He called Chloe, because if he called Lucifer, Lucifer would flip his shit, and that might actually start a war[1].

Chloe picked up right away. “Crowley? Is Trixie alright?” She sounded worried.

“She’s fine. Heaven recalled Aziraphale,” Crowley blurted. “I—I don’t know what to do. I got a letter from c-Castiel saying that Aziraphale wrote to him jussst before they brought him back Upstairs, because it was the only unwatched channel. Ssomething’s gone terribly wrong. I—I need help.”

Trixie gasped. Two arms wrapped around his waist. “Oh, Crowley,” she said. He actually appreciated the compassion and leaned into her, a little.

There was a silence on the other end.

“Heaven recalled Aziraphale,” Chloe said, muffled, like she was handing her phone over and Crowley was very stupid because she was literally sitting across from Lucifer and of course she would just give the phone to him. “He doesn’t know what to do.”

A rustle, as Lucifer took the phone.

“I’m calling Amenadiel,” Lucifer told Crowley gravely. “And I’m demanding, as King of Hell, to bring him back to Earth. Understood?”

Crowley took a shocked, hiccoughing breath. Amenadiel. Of course. And—and Michael, Michael was up there too—

“It’s going to be alright, Crowley,” Lucifer said, kind of awkwardly.

“What if they pinion him?” Crowley blurted. “For the whole—whole apocalypse—”

That was stupid. That was stupid. Oh, Manchester, so stupid because Lucifer was a friend, mostly, but he was still the King of Hell and he’d been furious when that whole thing went down—

“If they pinion him,” Lucifer said lowly, “We will retrieve him, and I will heal him. Understood?”

Crowley exhaled shakily. He closed his eyes and focused on Trixie’s comforting warmth. “One day, you’re going to explain that to me,” he whispered., trying to keep himself calm. “The apocalypse.”

He could practically feel Lucifer’s scowl over the phone. “There was a book,” he said darkly. “It was Destiny, apparently. I didn’t want to play, but it became apparent that if I didn’t create an antichrist, all the Gates of Hell would open, outside of my control. That sounded terrible, so I made one, and I gave him to the demon who seemed to understand humanity best.” That scowl softened into a smile. “You screwed it up all rather spectacularly, didn’t you, Crowley?” His voice warmed.

“You were angry.”

“I thought the Gates of Hell would open,” Lucifer said again, voice dry and strangely comforting. Crowley could hear them rising from their table, the footsteps as they headed for the door. “They would have, too. It was Adam who closed them, you know. Breathe, Crowley.”

“Don’t need to breathe,” Crowley said thinly.

“Yes, you do,” Lucifer said.

“Not literally.”

“Angels self-actualize.”

Crowley took a wheezy breath, because that was an excellent point.  “M’not an angel,” he said.

Trixie squeezed him tighter. “Yes you are,” she said. “Just because you’re Fallen doesn’t make you not an angel.”

Crowley blinked owlishly down at her. It was a nice sentiment except he most definitely wasn’t an angel anymore, and didn't really want to be. Angels were arseholes. He wanted Aziraphale, abruptly and fiercely, but he was afraid to call. He didn’t want to hear the line go dead. If Aziraphale had contacted Castiel, it had to have been very bad.

“Crowley,” Lucifer said softly. “We’re leaving the restaurant now.” Crowley could hear his Corvette’s engine growl in the background. “We’ll be back in about a half hour. I’m putting Chloe back on, and I’m calling Amenadiel.”

“Kay,” said Crowley, faint.

“Hey, Crowley,” Chloe said. “Where are you?”

“Living room. Trix is, er, hugging me.”

He could hear the smile in her voice. “Is she? That’s great. Why don’t you put on a movie? You can watch it til we get back.”

That wasn’t a bad idea. He looked down at Trixie. “Your mum suggests we watch a movie. Tangled?”

If Aziraphale was recalled, there was really nothing he could do, except pray to Michael or Amenadiel. Michael was a prat and Amenadiel was frankly terrifying, but Crowley was going to do it anyway, because that was the whole blessed point of Angel Network. He needed help. Anyway, he liked Tangled. It reminded him of the Rebellion, but in a good, seeking your own destiny kind of way.

Trixie thought about it. “Can you make popcorn? I like when you pop the kernels.”

“I can make popcorn,” Crowley told her quietly.

“Can I talk to her?” Chloe asked. Crowley handed the phone to Trixie.

 _“He just got some very scary news, Monkey,”_ Chloe was telling her. _“Can you just—sit with him? Til we understand what really happened?”_

“Something happened to—you know.” Trixie eyed him, like he couldn’t possibly know what she was talking about. She was a ridiculous child.

_“We don’t know yet, baby. We don’t know why he was recalled, only that Crowley’s scared.”_

Crowley wanted to protest that he definitely was not scared. He was petrified. Those were two very different things.

_“But I bet that he’d really appreciate it if you sat with him to watch a movie, okay?”_

Trixie’s big eyes swept up to Crowley’s. Crowley realized belatedly that he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses.

Trixie was a no-nonsense sort of child, who loved all things demon, but not in a way that indicated any sort of human evil or psychopathy. She liked knives because they were cool, and not because they hurt people. She liked beating up dummies because it was fun. She giggled phrases in Lilim to Crowley that would surely horrify her mother[2]. She’d even fixed an itch in Crowley’s coverts, by her own request. He hadn’t been preened for real by anyone but Aziraphale in centuries, but she was alright, for a human child. Hell’s bloody princess. No wonder Mazikeen liked her. Crowley liked her too.

“I like Tangled,” she said with a shrug, to both her mother and Crowley.

_“Thank you, baby, we’ll be home soon.”_

 Trixie hung up. “Come on,” she said lightly. “Let’s watch Tangled.” She took his hand in her small one and towed him to the couch. He miracled some sunglasses along the way.

Crowley missed the entire first part of the movie in a haze of anxiety, absently making popcorn pop with the heat from his hands[3]. He only really snapped out of it when the front door opened. He turned around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, rising to his knees like a child to look over the back of the couch. He was absolutely positive that he looked nothing close to cool, especially because popcorn went flying everywhere, half popped. Trixie giggled. 

“Any word?” he asked Lucifer as he strode inside.

“Amenadiel is apparently investigating,” Lucifer told him flatly. “Can I see the letter?”

Crowley handed him Castiel’s letter, crinkled and clenched from his fist, and kind of covered in popcorn oil. He still hadn’t really processed the whole thing. “He would have been frightened,” he said softly, even though Aziraphale would hate that Crowley was saying that, “To write to Castiel that hastily, instead of me.”

Chloe came up beside Lucifer. She touched his arm as she passed, and then sat down next to Crowley on the couch. “Would you like to stay here for the night?”

Crowley stared at her[4]. He felt a little blank.

And that was when someone else walked through the front door.

Crowley saw him first, because he was looking over Chloe’s shoulders. He noticed him a split second before Lucifer did: Michael, with his great white wings and his shit eating smile.

Oh--shit.

“Hello, Luci,” Michael drawled, and if Crowley hadn’t been out of his mind with terror for Aziraphale, he would have deeply enjoyed the sight of Lucifer nearly jumping out of his skin. Chloe spluttered, confused. 

The thought passed through Crowley's head like lightning; he immediately regretted ever even thinking of praying to the bastard for help, but who knew he would answer? Michael generally wasn't allowed to come to Earth. The door creaked shut behind him.

“What,” the devil gasped, horrified, “the _hell_ are you doing here?”  He staggered away from the back of the sofa, hands held palm out, _not here to fight_. His eyes darted, once, to Chloe[5].

Michael shrugged, and luckily didn't rat Crowley out. “They wanted to send Gabriel, but he was busy.”

“You made him busy, you mean[6],” Crowley said dully. He tucked an arm around Trixie and tugged her close, not that Michael would ever harm a child. She looked confused, but not afraid, not yet.

Michael’s predatory smile dropped off his face. “Something like that,” he told Crowley gently. “Aziraphale did make a mistake, Crowley.”

“Cut the crap, Michael,” Crowley said flatly. He used to be afraid of Michael, but that had been before he'd pried the bastard free from a bent up lamppost. Twice. Archangels. Honestly. Why would anyone even want to smite a lamppost?

He heard Chloe suck in a breath, like this newcomer angel suddenly made sense. “Why did they recall him?” Crowley asked. 

Michael cocked his head. “You don’t know?”

“Obviously not,” Crowley snapped.

Michael settled. He went absolutely still, the way only an active-duty archangel could, one of the remaining Seraphs of Heaven, and looked directly into Crowley’s eyes, old and calm and simmering with power. “Islington escaped.”

The bottom had already dropped out of Crowley’s stomach like an hour ago, but something else crashed through the basement and into Hell. “What?” he breathed.

“Impossible,” Lucifer barked, from where he’d backed away to the other side of the room.

“You escaped,” Michael said mildly.

“My prison had a lock,” Lucifer snapped. “And I never hurt anyone. Islington sank an entire city. Atlantis,” he added to Chloe, who looked more and more alarmed, the farther Lucifer backed away. “Islington is the angel responsible for sinking Atlantis.”

“That’s—not—” Chloe spluttered.

“An angel sank Atlantis?” Trixie squeaked.

“A very bad one,” Crowley told her softly. “The stories all say Lucifer and his demons hated people; they were wrong.”

“Of course they were,” Trixie said, definitive.

“Islington was the one who hated people,” Crowley continued.

“Islington went mad,” Michael said. He was regarding Trixie with puzzlement, as though he’d never seen a child before. Who knew? Maybe he hadn’t. “The Almighty locked it in a cage under London, where the Principality Aziraphale resided, for hundreds of years. Now its missing. They say,” that last was louder, directed toward Lucifer who had backed so far away that he was nearly against a window[7], “that its in Hell.”

“They what?” Lucifer growled.

“So I think,” said Michael, “That you ought to go Down and see for yourself.” He arched an eyebrow.

There was a short silence.

“Now,” Michael said firmly.

Very slowly, Lucifer shook his head. “I’m not going back,” he said.

Michael got a very familiar gleam in his eye. “Battle?” he breathed, excited.

“Not in Chloe’s house you’re not. Michael.” Crowley said sharply. “Michael!”

“Battle!” cried Michael, unstoppable as a bloody steam train, and he lunged.

Chloe jerked next to Crowley, crying “Lucifer!” but Crowley held her back, hard, because getting between Michael and Lucifer was the fastest way to suicide anyone could conceive of. Even Trixie cringed against him, frightened. 

Lucifer was no fool. Crowley knew that Lucifer had lost at least a dozen fights with Michael, each more unpleasant than the last, never mind the Fall. Lucifer lunged for the window behind him[8], crashed through, and outside his white, white wings reflected the moonlight for just a moment, before Michael followed. Michael didn’t bother to wait til he was outside; his wings half spread aggressively, he blundered right through both the window and the wall with a loud, squealing crash, and then they were both gone, only the sounds of their feathers _whumphing_ through the sky remaining.

“What—” gasped Chloe, straining against Crowley’s hand as if to follow, “What just—”

“Well,” Crowley drawled, still holding her back, “That went about as expected.” And then he drew in a shuddering breath and completely lost his cool, because Aziraphale was recalled, Islington had escaped, and Michael was going to bloody smite Lucifer, and everything was terrible.

“No—oh Crowley, oh god—” Warm, soft arms wrapped around him, and Chloe pulled him into an embrace. “Okay. Okay. We’ll get him back, Crowley. We’ll get him back.” She rubbed his back, shaking a little, clearly freaked out about Lucifer[9].

“We’re going to die,” Crowley wailed. “I’m never going to see him again and Islington is going to sink London, and then when it finds out I’m here, it’s going to sink LA, and then it’s going to go Upstairs and just—just slaughter everyone and—and that’s it, it’s over! And if Michael takes Lucifer out H-Hastur is going to f-find me and I _want Aziraphale_ —”

Okay. So this was bad. This was definitely bad. Time to take stock: Crowley, Serpent of Eden and Hell’s field agent, and general Flash Bastard[10], was ugly crying all over the Devil’s girlfriend.

But Chloe was the best friend a demon could ask for, because she rubbed his back and she hummed at him, a pretty decent impression of an angel’s thrum. “Is that a real possibility, or are you just freaking out?” she murmured.

Crowley hiccoughed. “Don’t know. Islington hasn’t been out in thousands of years. Aziraphale likes to visit it[11] every fifty and he says, he says that it’s become completely unhinged. Last time, last time Aziraphale spoke to Lord Portico about the doors, he had them checked and double-checked. Islington really freaked him out. He came and saw me for dinner after.” He put his cheek on her shoulder and leaned on her heavily.  She was warm and nicely soft, but she was a poor substitute for a deep bass thrum and a terrible, scratchy jumper. Still. She was a good friend.

“Who’s Lord Portico?” Trixie asked, behind him and tentative.

“Trix—” Chloe said, but she was wrong, and Crowley needed something else to focus on. 

“Lord Portico of the House of Arch is—was—the Opener of London Below,” Crowley said softly. “Last I heard he was murdered. So there’s this thing that cities do, some cities, old cities, where they divide in two: cities Above, and cities Below. Like an iceberg. You could say you live in LA Above. I don’t know if it’s old enough to have a Below[12]. Time kind of gets trapped in amber. Or it’s like—a mirror. It’s difficult to explain; you kind of have to see it. There’s—magic, and creatures, and a sort of darkness to the Below cities. The Lord Portico could open any door, and he could make doors, and he could lock doors. Aziraphale had him check Islington’s locks, because Islington was in a cage in London Below. I don’t like the Below cities.” He sniffed, and before he could stop it, the truth came out. “They frighten me. Terrible things happen down there, because it’s not demons, it’s people.”

Chloe rubbed his back[13].  “True virtue and true filth come from people alike,” she murmured thoughtfully.

“You’ve been listening to Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered miserably.

“We’ll get him back,” she said.

“How?” Crowley whimpered.

“Lucifer called Amenadiel,” Chloe said. “Isn’t he supposed to be the biggest, baddest angel around?”

“Still an angel,” Crowley told her shoulder, “Still follows the rules. Breaking someone out of prison is a pinioning offence.” He shuddered, because the idea of Aziraphale, his own angel, his companion for six thousand years, pinioned—his lovely cream wings, cut off at the wrist and depriving him of flight—was simply terrible.  

“You’ve clearly never met Amenadiel,” Chloe told him gently. “He’ll think of something, don’t worry.” She rubbed his shoulder blades.

“What’s gonna happen to Lucifer?” Trixie asked anxiously.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. “Last time Michael tore out his tongue. I have no idea.”

“He tore out his _tongue_?” Chloe blurted, voice high and squeaky[14]. She’d gone tense. “And he’s your _friend_?”

“He’s Aziraphale’s friend,” Crowley muttered unhappily. “And if Lucifer’s got any sense, he’ll take a swan dive Downstairs. Michael always wins. He kicked me out of Ireland, once.”

He could hear the cogs turning in Chloe’s brain. “St. Michael and the Serpent,” she said at last. She stroked his back again.

“Yeah. Bastard. You know he cut off the tip of my tail? I never liked Ireland anyway.”

“How could Aziraphale befriend him? If he hurt you?”

If he’s going to hurt Lucifer, was what she was really asking. She was practically shaking with worry. He sighed.

Chloe was a sensible sort. There was no _we have to help him!_ happening here. She knew, either intuitively or from Crowley’s flailing and holding her back, that getting between Lucifer and Michael was a death sentence, no matter how much both tried not to hurt her. Battling archangels were no joke. This was a waiting game. One of them would come back, eventually. It sucked being the damsel in distress. Crowley would know, because right now, he was the sodding damsel.

“Michael loves Earth,” Crowley sighed. Chloe smelled nice, and she was warm. “He ran into Aziraphale, in London. Aziraphale had this idiotic plan to befriend him, so that I could be safe. It took a while, but it actually worked, at least a little.” He swallowed. “Maybe it’ll help Lucifer, too.”

“Maybe,” murmured Chloe. “Maybe.”

 

 

 

\-----

[1] Lucifer didn’t want to start a war. He’d set Crowley free. Crowley was the worst vassal, so it was no great loss, but Crowley was an absolutely brilliant friend. He’d suspected as much. Aziraphale was a first-class arse, but Crowley adored him so much it was almost embarrassing. Like Hell would Lucifer let anyone break Crowley’s heart by hurting that idiot angel.

[2] Crowley thought this was hilarious and taught her more. He further taught her how to say _fuck off_ though not in so many words, in Enochian.

[3] Trixie thought this was extremely cool. Maze couldn’t pop popcorn with her hands. It was probably a fallen angel thing, except Lucifer never ever ever ever ever ever did miracles, and mommy said it was mean to ask him to, so maybe it was just a Crowley thing. Anyway, she ate the popcorn out of his hands as it popped, content. Sometimes one went flying too far and she had to go get it. It was fun.

[4] His yellow eyes went huge, the pupils wide enough to be round. His lip wobbled. He looked like a cartoon snake about to burst into noisy, wailing tears, only to be comforted by… Lucifer wasn’t sure, Chloe was perfect, and not cartoon like at all.

[5] She wasn’t in any sort of danger from Michael. Lucifer knew this; Michael was a bastard, but the worst he would try to do was sleep with her, unsuccessfully. Michael could cast a spell like Lucifer, though while Lucifer got _desire_ , Michael got _passion_. Subtly different, but the result was generally the same. Lucifer did kind of want to see the look on the moron’s smug, self-satisfied face when his powers didn’t work on Chloe, but the thing between him and Michael was personal. The faster he could get away, the less likely Chloe would try to get in the middle of it, and get hurt.   

[6] Gabriel didn’t have any imagination to speak of. He hadn’t even tried sugar when he was on Earth. Sugar! Sugar was the best part of Earth and Gabriel just—didn’t care. Michael thought it was a travesty. Gabriel wouldn’t miss one teensy little visit, especially because he didn’t even like Earth. Anyway, it was Angel Network business, and the less Gabriel knew about Angel Network the better. Michael kind of thought the Almighty knew that.

[7] Listen, escape routes were important. This wasn’t Lucifer’s first rodeo.

[8] Like Hell was he fighting his moronic brother in Chloe’s house, give him some credit.

[9] Chloe was beyond freaked out. What the hell were you supposed to do when an archangel showed up to beat up your Devil boyfriend? She wanted to laugh hysterically. She wanted to rage at the injustice of it all, because Lucifer had done nothing wrong. She wanted to cry. Was there any saving Lucifer? It wasn’t like she could shoot the Archangel Michael! What she could, and did do, was comfort the shaking demon, because Crowley was a sweetheart who totally fell apart when something bad happened to his apparently accident-prone boyfriend, and that was something she could focus on.

[10] Yeah, Crowley knew what the other demons said about him. He thought it was great.

[11] Angels, all angels, were sexless unless they made an effort. Lucifer was a connoisseur of making the effort, but Crowley and Aziraphale rarely bothered. Angels were also genderless, and, upon arrival to Earth, they had the luxury of choice. Most struggled with this; gender, as a concept, was generally hard to grasp for an angel. Many ended up choosing male, because it was frankly easier, though some chose female, and some chose neither, or both, or anywhere on the spectrum. Crowley had listened to many a rant from Aziraphale, because Islington had stomped its foot and said _I hate humans_ , not even bothering to experience that part of humanity. Islington remained as ethereal as anyone could on the human plain, its corporation sloppy, its divinity shining through. It took no part in human trifles such as gender or taste buds or even shoes, for that matter. This drove Aziraphale up a wall. How was anyone supposed to enjoy humanity if they didn’t embrace human trifles? Honestly.

[12] It is. LA Below is a frightening place full of Spaniards and colonialists and very angry native peoples, as well as weird offbeat echoes of the silver screen. Here's how it works: Cities are icebergs. LA Above moves forward in time, and as it goes it drops pieces of itself along the way. The pieces fall Below, to the underside of the iceberg, as it were; a parallel city that exists underneath and between the brickwork. LA Below, inhabiting the sewers and the liminal spaces, has blood-soaked streets that come straight from the 1600s and the Spanish colonists, and streets from the Tongva that go back to BC. Bygone days and long-dead people still live down there, as echoes and shadows. Frankly, Below cities give Crowley the creeps. 

[13] She had no idea what he was talking about. Magic? Cities Below? It all sounded insane, but then, she was cuddling a sobbing Serpent of Eden, and her boyfriend was the Devil, so really, anything was possible. Still. Chloe was a logical sort, and had kind of a sinking feeling that this London Below thing was going to be yet one more celestial thing that shook the very foundations of everything she believed in. Having her foundations shaken was kind of exhausting. She patted Crowley’s back, and would have prayed for strength, but who knew who was listening on the other end? Magic was terrible.

[14] Her mind went blank. His tongue? Lucifer’s tongue? Silver and sweet and cunning, the tongue he kissed her with, loved her with, used to get them out of every absurd situation in the book? What was Lucifer without his tongue? How could he, how could he? The rage that came on the heels of the shock was powerful. Her poor Lucifer! And then another thought: Had it grown back? Did she want to know? No. No, she didn’t, but she decided she hated Michael with blinding intensity. Her heart twisted with worry. Was Lucifer going to come back without a tongue? Or—or pinioned, whatever that meant?


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley fell asleep on her.

He wasn’t proud of it, but she was warm, and he’d transformed into a snake at some point, and curled around her shoulders, and that was it. She was a warm body and he trusted her because she was angel network, even though she wasn’t an angel, and it was all over.

He woke up because there was something in the room.

The sun was rising, and Chloe was fast asleep on the couch, Trixie in her lap. Crowley had draped himself around her shoulders. He raised his serpentine head over the back of the sofa, and there was a great, amorphous black mist, whirling in quiet circles above the rug behind the couch, as if thinking. It was an imp, but a deeper and darker imp than Crowley had ever seen.

“No,” Crowley told the imp, and he would have growled it if he hadn’t been a snake. “Possession is disgusting and moreover, these humans are mine.”

 _Disgusting?_ laughed the imp, in a voice made of broken glass and jagged edges, like nothing Crowley had heard before. _But that’s half the fun! Islington said to have fun._

It didn’t go for Chloe, because Crowley was draped around her neck and there was no way an imp could get past a Greater Demon in close quarters like that. It went for Trixie.

Absolutely not.

In a mostly inelegant act, Crowley transformed back into a man with an empty plant mister in his hand. He was draped ungracefully over Chloe’s shoulders but he squirmed and kicked and over her yelp he caught the thing as it dived into Trixie; he grabbed at the thick, tacky smoke with one hand and shoved it into the plant mister, bare handed. It kind of tried to bite him, which failed because it didn’t have a body, and it also tried to possess him which was laughable but eventually he got it into the bottle. He put a sigil at the bottom for good measure, because this was a very nasty little imp.       

He then promptly fell to the floor with a thump.               

“What,” shrieked Chloe, “The hell, Crowley!”

Sprawled on his back on the floor, Crowley held out the plant mister. “Imp,” he said.

Chloe blinked down at him.

“M-mommy?” Trixie sounded terrified. “Mommy, Mommy that—it wanted me to—”

Something angry and fierce uncoiled in Crowley. These were Lucifer’s humans, but they were also kind of becoming his humans. “Possession is _disgusting,_ ” Crowley told the child lowly[1]. “And you belong to Lucifer, and Mazikeen, and by bloody Manchester you also belong to me. This piece of garbage picked the wrong human, do you understand?” He shook the little bottle, fogged black with the imp.

Trixie’s eyes were huge. She nodded. “Can we call Maze?” she whispered.

Mazikeen was terrifying. But she would probably provide better protection than anything Crowley could do. “Yeah,” he said, “Sure. Doesn’t she live here?”

“She’s on a bounty, but she’ll come home for something like this, I think,” Chloe said. She swallowed. “Crowley—Lucifer’s been gone all night—”

Crowley thunked his head back against the floor. She was right. “Michael, Michael, Archangel Michael, hear my prayer,” he said. “What on Earth did you do to my boss?”

“I chased Beelzebub down into the depths of Hell, and there we battled!” Michael cried, appearing abruptly, splendid white wings and all, so Chloe and Trixie yelped. “We clashed over the Lake of Fire and then we—”

“Get to the point, Michael,” Crowley said. “Is he coming back or--?”

Michael looked very proud of himself. “I locked him in the cage.”

“Of course you did. He's fine,” Crowley told an alarmed Chloe. “He can pick the lock, so chasing him in there is largely pointless.” He glared at Michael.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Michael muttered.

“That was mean,” Trixie said.

Michael puffed up. “It was my function.”

“Your function is to lock people in cages?”

“His function is to be an arse,” Crowley muttered. 

Michael huffed at him indignantly. “Why are you on the floor?” he asked.

Crowley held up the plant mister. “Imp,” he said.

“Battle?” Michael breathed, excited.

“No! It’s just a bloody imp! Down boy!”

Michael deflated.

“Go back Upstairs and rescue Aziraphale,” Crowley told him, uselessly.

“Aziraphale is being punished,” Michael said, but he did sound genuinely remorseful. ”It isn’t my area.”

No, Crowley thought angrily. He didn’t want to go Upstairs because if he went Upstairs, he’d be stuck there, and wouldn’t be able to come back down. He was probably only here on a technicality, after all.

“Did you see Islington?” Crowley asked. “In Hell? The imp mentioned it.”

Michael blinked. “I was fighting Lucifer.”

Crowley beat the back of his head against the floor. “Of course you were. Did it ever occur to you that Lucifer doesn’t want to fight?” 

Michael blinked at him. “No.”

Crowley sighed explosively. He really, really wanted Aziraphale. Aziraphale knew how to deal with this moron. “Well. He doesn’t want to fight. Listen. Michael. Could you—” oh it was such a bad idea, but the Serpent in Crowley just couldn’t resist a little mayhem. “Could you pick us up some breakfast? I’m traumatized, and so are these humans.” He waved at Chloe and Trixie.  “Least you could do is get us some food. Also coffee. Please?”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “You’re up to something.”

Crowley smiled at him, sweet and false as half the breasts in LA. “Always.”

“I will unravel your plots, Serpent!” Michael said grandly, but that passed for playful for him, and he turned on his heel and trotted out the great big hole he’d left in the wall the night previous. Crowley promised himself he’d patch it, as soon as he could get up off this floor.

Crowley thunked his head against the floor again. “You do that[2].”

“I’m—not really that hungry,” Trixie said softly.

“Just to get rid of him. Lucifer’ll show up in like a minute, once he’s gone,” Crowley explained. “He really can pick the lock.”

“Why—why even is there a cage?” Chloe asked softly.

“Because Him Above is bloody terrible, that’s why,” Crowley muttered. “You want to call Mazikeen?”

“No need.”

“Lucifer!” gasped Chloe, jumping to her feet. Crowley tipped his head back.

Sure enough, once Michael was out of sight, Lucifer limped home. He had one arm slung over Mazikeen’s shoulder, and together they shuffled into the room. The devil had a black eye, and one of his wings hung at a funny angle, as though broken. His right hand was covered in cuts and scrapes like he’d stuck it in a briar bush. Nasty cage.

“Maze!” cried Trixie, and she followed her mother.

Crowley kind of figured he should get to his feet, so he rolled over listlessly. He stopped there and mournfully contemplated snakehood, but didn’t transform. Mazikeen was Hell’s best torturer, he thought glumly. His best bet was to hide under the sofa, probably. He rested his cheek on the carpet, feeling depressed.  

Chloe slipped under Lucifer’s other arm, and the two of them half dragged him to the couch, where he collapsed heavily. Chloe fiddled with his alula anxiously, preening him like the gesture was natural to her, like she was born doing it. Crowley felt abstractly proud of her[3].  “Lucifer, was this Michael?”

Lucifer leaned into her touch. “Of course it was, that bloody bastard,” he said sullenly, and that was all Crowley heard, because Mazikeen’s eyes zeroed in on him.

“Crawly,” she said shortly. His heart stopped, in a bad way.

“Mazikeen of the Lilim,” Crowley rasped, frightened and still on the floor but on his belly now. He definitely didn’t have the courage to stand. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, she’d forget she ever saw him. Even though she was a Lesser Demon, she outranked him by quite a lot, and she was the scariest demon Lucifer had in his arsenal. He held out the imp with a shaking hand. “This tried to possess the little human.”

Mazikeen’s eyes darkened with rage. She glanced at Trixie, who had her arms around her waist, completely fearless. Trixie sniffled.

“Did it now?” she purred, the way the Lilim purred, sweet and deadly as nightshade. Crowley suppressed a shudder.

“It was going to kill mommy,” Trixie whispered.

“It was _what_?” Lucifer snarled from the couch.

“It wanted me to kill mommy!” Trixie wailed, and buried her face in Mazikeen’s side.

“Oh—honey—” Chloe sounded shell shocked. Beside her, Lucifer looked as murderous as anyone with a black eye and a broken wing could look.

“How— _dare_ —” he snarled.

Crowley girded his loins. He sat up, finally, shaking because there were way too many scary, scary people[4] who were very angry. “It’s different,” he said. “It’s different from every other imp I’ve seen before. Look at it, milady.” He offered it to Mazikeen, and then said, for emphasis, because the Lilim really, really liked to kill things, “Really look at it.”

She took the plant mister, frowning. She held it to the light like it was a fine wine, and she was inspecting the color. Inside, the imp raged and raged, black smoke thundering in circles.

She cocked her head. “Wrong,” she said softly. “It _is_ wrong. Lucifer, look at it.”

“Wrong how?” Chloe asked. She went to intercept the thing so she could hand it to Lucifer, but everyone in the room batted her away. 

“Don’t touch it!” Lucifer told her, but it came out more plaintive than firm. He took the mister.

“It’s all—jagged edges and broken angles,” Crowley told Chloe. “Most imps are smooth. I don’t know how else to explain it. It mentioned Islington, Lucifer.”

Lucifer was also holding the thing up to the light, examining it with his cut and bleeding hand. Crowley thought again of the cage in Hell, and its miserable lock. He’d never looked at it too hard. Did it have blades or something? Or were the cuts from the mechanism? It must have been terribly painful, anyway. Lucifer’s hand was all torn up. “This imp was made,” Lucifer said flatly. “It didn’t make itself. Someone created it; human soul with the firmament of Hell. I outlawed this, _centuries_ ago,” the last was a growl.

“Made by another imp, not a demon.” Mazikeen agreed. “Look at the uneven edges.”

“Impossible,” said Lucifer. “The imps are contained.”

Crowley had a deeply awful thought. “Not in Nightmare World,” he said slowly.

Mazikeen frowned at him. “What’s Nightmare World?”

“Next universe over,” Crowley said. “The boss stayed in his cage. Never gave Hell rule of law. Place was overrun by imps.”

Mazikeen snarled at him, nearly baring her teeth in the parody of a smile, and that was deeply terrifying. His heart tripped over itself and he sucked in a breath. “Impossible,” she said, low and fierce.

“He’s not lying,” Lucifer said softly. He shook the mister. “Let’s ask.” He spritzed the mister.

“Lucifer!” cried Chloe, and Trixie gave a terrified cry, but she quieted when Mazikeen knelt and put her arms around her. Crowley boggled at this, at Mazikeen of the Lilim, cuddling a child. He’d only ever seen her from afar, and that had been because she was usually eviscerating someone.

“Relax, my darling,” Lucifer crooned to Chloe, spritzing black mist, “You are surrounded by demons who adore you. None of us will let this creature so much as sniff you. You and the urchin are safe as houses. Well hello, and who might you be?”

The vicious dark mist swirled and swirled above Lucifer’s head. When the devil’s eyes glowed red, it flattened like a chastised dog. “ _M-my lord_ ,” it gasped.

“Name, date of death, occupation,” Lucifer barked, the pretense of patience falling away abruptly.  Chloe ducked her head and pressed against him, eyes the size of saucers. Poor human, Crowley thought sympathetically. Chloe was the bravest of the brave, but she was not built for the supernatural. Abstractly, he thought he’d buy her a lemon-something when this was all over. After a visit to Hell, or a scare from Heaven, Crowley tended to roll around in Earthly things for a while. It was grounding. Maybe it would help Chloe, too. She liked lemons, anyway, he was fairly certain.

“ _Barry Howel, October 12, 2003, Torture and Torment, sir!_ ” the imp said.

“Who made you?” Lucifer demanded. He pulled Chloe closer to his side, almost absently, eyes glowing red and fixed on the imp.

“ _A-Alistair, sir_ ,” the imp said.

“Why did he disregard my orders?” Lucifer snarled.

_“Alistair was following Lilith’s orders, sir, because you were—were—in the—” its voice faded._

“Cage,” Crowley said shortly. “The word you want is cage.”

“ _Is it?_ ” cooed the imp. “ _Is it really? You’re a pretty Fallen! I haven’t seen a Fallen since Azazel left for the surface!”_

“Answer the question,” Lucifer said sharply. “Was I in the cage?”

 _“Yes, sir,”_ said the imp, chastised.

“For thousands of years.”

“ _Mil-lions!”_ sang the imp, giggling. _“But we got you out, at least for a while!”_

Lucifer nodded. “And Hell,” he said, “How many imps are there?”

“ _Innumerable_ ,” cooed the imp, dark mist swirling and swirling.

“Who sent you?” Lucifer asked.

“ _Islington_ ,” giggled the imp. “ _It’s an angel, though it hasn’t any wings_.” The pout was in its voice.

“That’s all I needed to know. Generally speaking, I don’t destroy my imps, but you attacked Beatrice Decker, and that is unforgivable. I sentence you to bloody unmaking, congratulations; you are the first imp in twelve centuries to get that decree. Maze.”

Mazikeen’s lip curled in a snarl. She hurled a wickedly curved Hell-forged blade into the mist before anyone could say anything and it shrieked, and died, flickering and fading like a thunderstorm. The knife imbedded itself in the far wall.  Crowley’s heart jolted with horror.

You didn’t unmake someone just because they made a mistake, even if they were a jagged, awful and wrong imp. He gaped at Lucifer, without words. He kind of wanted to wail. It felt like a betrayal.

“Maze!” gasped Chloe, apparently equally shocked. That was strangely reassuring.  

“Islington,” Lucifer growled, like his sentence was nothing, like it didn’t go against every single bloody thing he ever stood for. Everything Crowley had Fallen for. Like Trixie, lovely though she was, was more important than that one, single, vital principle. Crowley and Lucifer both had given up a great deal for that principle, back in the day.

Crowley swallowed. Maybe to Lucifer, she was. What if that abomination had tried to possess an Aziraphale vulnerable to such a thing? Horror. Horror, horror, horror. What if it had hurt Aziraphale? If it had tried to take Bakt or Kemsit or Masaharta of Thonis, those humans he’d loved long ago?   

The thought made a slow shudder slide down his spine. He’d followed Lucifer over the edge in outrage over Seraquael, Lucifer who’d just utterly destroyed that imp without even a thought. Would Crowley do the same for Aziraphale? He’d already done it to Ligur, once upon an apocalypse, to save his own life. He’d defenestrated his principles like Vilem Slavata of Chlum[5], because he was frightened, the world was ending, and Hell really was out to get him. Of course he’d do the same for Aziraphale. He might have even done it for Trixie. Lucifer had made the right choice. The realization rose like nausea in Crowley’s gut. He wanted to hide under the sofa.

“If there’s one, there’ll be more,” spat Mazikeen. “That’s how imps work.” She stroked through Trixie’s hair gently. She valued that girl, too. Of course, so did Crowley.

She was right. Oh, bloody Somewhere, she was right. There would be more imps.

“We’re doomed,” Crowley said faintly. “Oh, we’re so doomed. Why is Islington sending over imps from Nightmare World? How did Islington even get imps from Nightmare World?” Because that imp was so clearly from Nightmare World it was painful. It was wrong, and jagged, and ill-kempt. It came from a world where Lucifer was in a cage, Hell was overrun, and an imp called Alistair made more imps. Crowley had heard the name Alistair before, from Castiel. It was definitely Nightmare World.

“You’re the one with the contact,” Lucifer told Crowley.

Oh. Right.

A little shaky, still trying to breathe through his shock, Crowley snapped a finger, producing parchment and pen. He scribbled. “Boreas!” he cried as he wrote, “Vene mihi! Nuntium habeo tibi fer Castieli!”

“Non tuus servus sum, Serpens,” Boreas hissed, like it always hissed, but Crowley didn’t have time for this nonsense. He was feeling traumatized and he wanted Aziraphale, and he damn well needed Castiel’s advice because this was the second blessed time this had happened! Someone was going to get hurt, if all these bloody monsters kept leaking through.

“Amabo te, Boreas,” Crowley entreated, and the wind, clearly fed up with his nonsense, took the letter and disappeared.

Zephyr came back very quickly. It deposited the letter on Crowley’s head. Mazikeen snorted when Crowley yelped. He unfolded the letter, muttering to himself indignantly.

_WHAT_

_what do you mean you had one of our demons_

_Cas is at the grocery store_

_-Dean_

Bloody great. Crowley hated it when the Brothers Winchester answered his letters, especially pompous, idiotic Dean. What Castiel saw in him was a total mystery. Castiel adored those boys; they had full access to his mail, after all, which required a great deal of trust. Of course they knew Latin, being hunters, and of course they could summon the wind, for the same reason. Sam called them “Daydream World[6].”

“What does he say?” Chloe asked, because she was six hundred times better than Dean Winchester. She still looked a little shellshocked, but she was focusing on the present as best as she could.

“He’s at the grocery store apparently,” Crowley muttered. “Dean Winchester answers his mail now.”

“Who the hell is Dean Winchester?” demanded Mazikeen.

Crowley flinched. The words came out before he could stop them. “Your worst nightmare,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow and licked her lips, like that was an interesting challenge.  He really, really wanted Aziraphale. “My worst nightmare,” Crowley elaborated. “Everyone’s worst nightmare. Humans who hunt demons.”

Trixie gasped and clutched at Mazikeen tighter. “But why?” she whimpered.

“Because demons in that world look like that imp,” Crowley told her, a little more gently, “That’s why we call it Nightmare World, yeah?” A many-winged creature gamboled in the corner of the room. It was Zephyr again, not bound by the laws of time or physics.  It dropped another letter on Crowley. Crowley opened it.  

_Dear Crowley,_

_This is Sam. I hope you’re doing well. I’m sorry my brother is completely unhelpful. I’ve done a very quick check of our library because I think I saw something similar once. I haven’t found much, just the appearance of a demon named Malphas in the 16 th century. He was unusual for a demon, at least for us; he claimed to be made from the firmament of Hell, instead of a human soul, and he claimed to have escaped from one Hell to another Hell through a small hole. The Men of Letters had him destroyed shortly after. I know you also had a Leviathan problem a few months ago. Is it possible that there’s a hole in the world?_

_All the best,_

_Sam_

That was so horrifying that Crowley just handed it to Lucifer, speechless. A hole in the world? A hole in the world that somehow had to do with Islington? Please no. Please no. A hole in the world _without Aziraphale?_ Not fair. Not fair.

“I sentenced Malphas to an eternity in the River of Blood for taking the life of a human child,” Lucifer growled, looking down at the letter. “He disappeared shortly after. There must be a hole in Hell.” He looked up. “Mazikeen,” he said, “Find every single bloody imp in this city. Capture them. If they are possessing humans, force them out, do you understand?”

Mazikeen gritted her teeth. “On it,” she said, rising to her feet amid protests from Trixie. Distantly, Crowley heard the sound of wings.

Hold on. Wings? Crowley frowned, and then there was the tentative sound of a door opening.

 “Crowley?” Equally tentative footsteps on Chloe’s rug.

The world fell away.

Crowley was up like a shot. He sprinted around the couch, nearly tripped over a pillow and slammed face first into Aziraphale’s shoulder. His angel gasped like he was wounded but Crowley couldn’t quite stop himself, he wrapped arms and wings around him, thrumming wildly between each hitching breath. There were no words, except that Aziraphale was hugging him just as tightly, just as frightened.

“I love you,” Aziraphale gasped in his ear, “I love you, I love you, I love you, that was terrible, I love you—”

Crowley hitched on another breath. “What hap-happened, angel, you were gone—Castiel said recalled—”

“Islington—Islington—Islington—” Aziraphale babbled, completely unhelpful. His arms went tight around Crowley’s waist. He thrummed back, deep and wonderful and desperate. Crowley kind of melted into him.

“Brother!” said a voice behind Aziraphale, “What happened to your wings?”

Aziraphale twitched. He looked up, bringing his cheek away from Crowley’s, and that was just bloody unacceptable. “Amenadiel,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Crowley didn’t have to look up to know that Amenadiel was standing there, in Chloe’s house, in all his terrifying splendor. Amenadiel could smite Crowley as easily as breathing, and Crowley had reached a certain point of terror and relief wherein he found that he just didn’t care. He had Aziraphale back. That was all that mattered.

Amenadiel[7] smiled. Crowley could hear it in his voice, though he couldn’t see him, because he was too busy burying himself in his angel. “That’s what Angel Network’s for, Aziraphale. Just—do me a favor. Don’t release any more convicts, okay?”

“I didn’t release it!” That was loud, a shout, a high note of panic that Crowley despised. He curled into Aziraphale unhappily.

“I know,” Amenadiel said lowly. “I know, Aziraphale. I wouldn’t have released you, otherwise.”

Against Crowley, Aziraphale shuddered. Crowley thrummed at him until he stopped shaking. He let the outside world happen to other people and pulled Aziraphale in closer with his wings.

“They thought you freed Islington?” he whispered.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “Yes,” he said, raspy. “That I felt sorry for it, and that I released it, and sent it to Hell. I told them that that was preposterous and that if it ended up in Hell then the humans of London Below were to blame, but did they listen to me? Of course not.”

Crowley swallowed. He ran his knuckles just below Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, where his wings would be, had he unfurled them. The muscles were knotted and tense and Aziraphale shivered. “What did they do to you?”

“There was an angel I’ve never seen before,” he whispered. “Called Naomi. Strange name for an angel. She—she—she had me k-kill you—again and again and again—” his voice went thready. “I knew it wasn’t you—they can never get the eyes right—but it was awful, my love, just awful—”

Crowley thrummed at him again, disturbed. Naomi did not end in an -el. Strange name indeed; every angel’s name ended in an -el[8], or near enough. Aziraphale’s was, technically speaking, poorly transliterated from Aziraphael[9]. Even Islington’s name had been altered, when it had been thrown in prison. It was symbolic, or something. Naomi, Naomi, Naomi….hadn’t he heard that name before? 

From Castiel?

It slid like ice down his reptilian spine. Nightmare World. It was Nightmare World again. Had to be. Only this time, Nightmare World had hurt his angel. What on Earth was happening here?

“Alright,” Crowley murmured. “Got you now. Got you now.” He gave a little laugh. “You’ve gotta stop doing this,” he sighed, so relieved that at least he had Aziraphale back that he could shake apart. “Two months ago a bloody Nightmare World Leviathan bit you; now you get abducted. This is getting ridiculous, angel.”

Aziraphale laughed weakly against him. “I thought they would pinion me,” he whispered.

“Me too,” Crowley whispered back. “Me too, oh Manchester, Aziraphale—”

Aziraphale gave a wild little laugh and thrummed at him. He pressed a quick, tentative kiss on Crowley’s neck, like he was worried the gesture was too human and that was just—no.

Crowley took his chin in the crook of one finger and got him on the lips, warm and damp and all human, because screw angel kind, Heaven and Hell alike. It was quick because they were technically still in public and anyway it didn’t come naturally to either of them, but it made Aziraphale relax, finally, and bury his nose in Crowley’s shoulder.

“Got you now,” Crowley whispered again, closing his eyes. He held Aziraphale tightly, rustling his wings around them. “Got you now.”

 

 

_____ 

[1] This effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was sprawled on his back on the floor with a bright green plant mister.

[2] Michael did do that. He also smote three lampposts and a poodle on his way. The poodle had a smarmy look about it. Michael won that battle. And then he made love with the poodle’s owner. All in all, a successful day out.

[3] Wings were beautiful and bizarre. They meant things that Chloe didn’t always understand, especially to Lucifer, who had a complicated relationship with them, with his father, with his kingship. But she’d watched a lot of Youtube videos about preening birds, and he had explained one quiet night, as Chloe had carefully straightened his coverts, that her touch was always, always welcome. Lucifer never lied. She usually fixed his wings on Thursdays, because she didn’t have Trixie, and he’d sort of—follow her around the precinct, nose nearly in her neck, begging with his eyes at like, one in the afternoon. He never said a word about it, but he almost hit full blown depression if they had a case, and she couldn’t get to him til Saturday or Sunday.  She gave in more than she should, but that contented, bass thrum of his was addictive. Anyway. She knew preening meant comfort and love, and that was good enough for her. He needed all the comfort and love he could get.

[4] He was using a very loose definition of “people”.

[5] Defenestrated with Jaroslav Borzita of Martinice in Prague in 1618. In an odd stroke of luck, they survived their fall due to a convenient moat, and an enormous pile of horse manure. Crowley got a commendation for it, since It was one of the catalysts for the Thirty Years War. He’d actually done it because falling into an enormous pile of horseshit was hilarious, especially given the religious turmoil of the time and especially considering that they were noblemen. He was definitely not trying to save them. Nope. No way. 

[6]Castiel told them about Crowley and Aziraphale in bits and pieces, mostly as stories after hunts. These were the times Castiel relished, the times they just talked.

“They stopped an apocalypse with the power of sunshine and happiness, are you _kidding me?_ ” Dean looked personally offended by this.

Sam chuckled. “They call us Nightmare World?” He smiled at Castiel, sipping his beer.

Castiel shrugged. “Crowley does. He’s rather melodramatic, for a demon.”

“Then _I_ say they’re Daydream World,” Sam declared.

“You are such a girl,” Dean grumbled, but otherwise made no objections.

[7] He didn’t know Aziraphale. Not well, anyway. He knew from the paperwork that Aziraphale was Created as a Cherubim, a first-class warrior, and assigned the Eastern Gate of Eden as a great honor. Then he’d been demoted to Principality for reasons unspecified, and now spent most of his time on Earth, a field agent.

Aziraphale, in Heaven, was kind of like that kid who collected insects and pinned them to a board. He was weird, and deeply uncool, and the other angels laughed behind his back, except Michael. Amenadiel had always kind of steered clear of the whole thing. And then he spent time on earth. Turns out, insects were pretty cool. He was trying to be nicer to Aziraphale, having learned that earth was in fact excellent, but it was hard. Aziraphale was just—terribly odd. Still, he was certain that Aziraphale had great things to teach him, and he couldn’t teach him anything if he let Gabriel slice off his wings.

[8] Not Including Zachariah, for some reason. Every universe had a Zachariah, even when Zachariah didn’t follow the rules. It was probably ineffable. Bastard. In their rare quiet moments, Zachariah and Sandalphon would sit together and scowl that they did not question the Almighty's choices, of course, because that would be sacrilege, and they did indeed like their names, however, it was not excellent that they stuck out like two sore thumbs. They both came away from those discussions in terrible moods  (not that they both really had another other kind). 

[9] The Romans brought it over from the Greek alphabet and completely botched it, and then the English had misspelled it somewhere down the road, but Aziraphale secretly liked it. It tied him to Earth just that much more.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they could stand to be separate from each other, Amenadiel had exclaimed over Lucifer’s injuries and healed him, particularly his broken wing. Uncharacteristically skittish, Aziraphale stood behind Crowley, close to his shoulder. He touched one of Crowley’s feathers carefully, like he might break.

Crowley didn’t know who this Naomi was, but he decided that he was going to figure out how to set Lucifer on her. Or possibly Islington.

No. Better. Raguel, at the height of his power. If anyone deserved to be unmade, Crowley thought, deep and dark and furious, it was the angel who hurt Aziraphale. All bets were off, especially after that imp. He was going to call up Raguel, and he was going to make him destroy her.

It was unthinkable. The Fall came and went with Raguel’s power; that power had cost Crowley his halo. To see it used again, on anyone, would be appalling. With strong, clever Aziraphale cowering and small behind him, it was all Crowley wanted.

“You’re scheming,” purred Mazikeen, strolling up to Crowley. Her eyes gleamed. “I like it.”

Crowley—wasn’t proud of what he did next. In his defense, she was a Lesser Demon and vicious, when she wanted to be. She smelled like the Lilim, anyway, and the Lilim had always freaked Crowley out. He hissed at her and mantled on instinct, shoving his shoulders back and blocking Aziraphale from her view. She was a demon, after all, and one of Hell’s best. The world had gone a little red and hazy.  He was terrified.

The worst part was that Aziraphale did not squawk at him to behave.

Mazikeen huffed out a breath, a sound that seemed deceptively human, but was a marker of one of the Lilim. It was a submissive sound, though it sounded amused. “Alright, Fallen,” she said wryly, a lioness to a housecat, “I’m not going to hurt your boy-toy. You can put your wings away.”

Normally Aziraphale would have talked him down, too. Crowley listened for it. But the angel huddled against his back and shook. Crowley stared at Mazikeen, something slow and dark moving in his mind. She really could tear him to pieces, and she definitely outranked him, but she looked more amused than threatening, her lip curling into a smirk. He tried to lower his wings, but he found that he really, really couldn’t. His heart was beating very fast.

“Crowley, Crowley,” sighed Lucifer after a beat of silence. “It’s alright, Crowley. We’re all friends here.” But he’d pushed Chloe and Trixie behind himself, just a little, as though Crowley would strike them.

Amenadiel frowned. “It shouldn’t be that bad,” he said slowly. “Aziraphale, you were locked in a room, awaiting pinioning. I got you a pardon. Crowley, is he injured?”

“He wasn’t alone in the room,” Crowley growled. He was careful to enunciate, and not to hiss.  

“Impossible,” Amenadiel said.

“Nightmare World, Lucifer,” Crowley said sharply. “The bleedthrough’s in Heaven, too. There was an angel called Naomi.”

“That’s not an angel’s name,” Lucifer said.

“It is in the other world,” Aziraphale whispered, distraught because he also knew Castiel very well. He was no fool, and could make the connection perfectly well, thank you. He probably knew who this Naomi was the moment he met her, and that had probably made the whole experience worse. Nightmare World, and the stories Castiel had told them over lunch at the Ritz during his stay with them, was horrifying. The fear in his voice broke Crowley’s heart. He lowered one wing, looked over his shoulders.

Aziraphale was curled up against Crowley’s back, looking down. He did not look okay.

Crowley gazed at his curly blonde head and thrummed at him anxiously. Aziraphale thrummed back, low and deep. This was terrible.

“Why isn’t it an angel name?” Trixie was standing back-to-front with her mother, Chloe’s arms around her shoulders. Lucifer had tucked himself just a little in front and to the side of them, but Crowley could see her.  

“Doesn’t end in -el, small human,” Mazikeen told her lightly. “All angels have an -el in their name. At least here.” She raised an eyebrow at Lucifer. “Islington’s probably a nickname or something, isn’t it?”

It was. Aslitiel had a name change and a demotion before it was locked away forever below London. It hadn't even been pinioned; they'd removed its wings entirely. 

“So maybe Islington’s not in Hell after all,” murmured Lucifer.

Aziraphale shuddered against Crowley’s back and spoke. “If Islington had made it to Heaven, then there would be no more Heaven,” he said flatly. “No one knows Islington like I do. Its plan was to destroy the Throne.”

“Why?” Amenadiel asked, aghast.

“Madness,” Aziraphale said. He peered over Crowley’s wing. “Only madness. It is possible that it is in touch with Naomi, however. The place to start would be the House of Arch, in London Below. I believe the Lady Door was the last to see Islington living.”

“Door’s like six, angel,” Crowley said.

“In her forties, you’ll find,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley huffed out a tense breath. “How they grow.” Unable to help himself, he reached out and combed his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. The angel smiled at him, fond. Crowley hated the thought of him going to London Below all freaked out like this.

“Does—does this work like a missing person’s case?” Chloe asked. “Because if it does, I can help.”

“Darling, Islington is _extremely_ dangerous, on a level you are not accustomed—” Lucifer spluttered.

“So come with us,” Chloe said. “You and me and Crowley and Aziraphale and—” She looked down at her daughter and deflated. “I—I don’t think I feel comfortable leaving her alone,” she said. “Maybe I should stay home after all.”

“I don’t want to be left alone,” Trixie blurted, and she sounded panicked. “Please don’t leave me behind, mommy, not even with Maze, please, please, I’m really scared!”

“I have to scout for imps,” Maze said. “If I leave them, they’ll, you know, possess people.”

“Amenadiel, you should go back Upstairs and find this Naomi,” Lucifer growled, and he looked appropriately outraged.  

Something about that was calming. Finally, finally, Crowley was able to force himself to fold his wings. Reason was filtering in, a little. “I can write to Castiel again, or Sam or whoever,” he said slowly. “See if we can get more information out of them.”

“Once a human goes Below they never come back,” Aziraphale said. He smiled tentatively at Chloe. “Unless they have a celestial on their shoulder, of course. Luckily for you, my dear, you have four. You may take your child. Lucifer Morningstar himself will see her safely home.”

“That’s madness,” Lucifer hissed. He looked about ready to throw up his wings to look bigger, too.  Even Chloe was shaking her head, ready to refuse. She was right to. London Below was no place for a child. Aziraphale did know that, but Crowley was chalking this up to a serious brain-scrambling in Heaven. He did always come back from Upstairs a little funny, at least for a while. 

“That’s the adventure,” said Michael, and Crowley jumped about a foot in the air. The archangel was leaning against the hole in the wall, holding a tray with way too many coffees.  Him Above only knew how long he’d been standing there, since Him Below, bristling, clearly didn't.

Lucifer’s feathers ruffled and prickled like a pinecone. He half-spread his wings, a threat display. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Now I know why the Almighty let me come down,” Michael said. He didn’t move from his graceful slouch, though his eyes traced Lucifer's wings, clearly reading _battle_ in them. “I have to battle Islington.”

“You’re mean!” Trixie blurted. “You beat up Lucifer!”

“Oh, he’s fine, aren’t you, Luci? It’s not like it was the apocalypse.” He smiled like a leopard, as though it was a secret joke and not a horror, that he and Lucifer would battle to the death at the end of the world, should it ever come[1].

“Michael,” Amenadiel said softly, “There is no call for that. We’re not at war.”

“Spoil all my fun, brother,” Michael said lightly. “Coffee?” He held out his tray. The tray was meant to hold four, but Michael had somehow managed to wedge eight on there, as well as an enormous pile of sugar packets, squeezed and mashed in between the cups. 

“Did you bless any of it,” Crowley growled.

“Of course I didn’t,” Michael replied, playful and almost singsong. “I like you.”

Like Hell was Crowley leaving Aziraphale’s side, for any reason, even just to go across the room. He felt strung out and panicked, still. Behind him, Aziraphale took a breath, and apparently disagreed. He let it out, and then strode away, up to Michael, taking Crowley’s heart with him.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, and took an iced coffee in a clear plastic cup that was suspiciously brown at the bottom—likely a mocha, knowing Michael. He took one for Crowley, too, who stood rooted on the spot.

Michael frowned at Aziraphale. “You’re hurt,” he said, and he sounded actually concerned. Well, of course he did. Michael really did like Aziraphale, unlike most of the archangels, Raguel and Lucifer aside. 

Aziraphale tittered. “Rather,” he said.

“Aziraphale,” Michael said seriously. “I will fix this.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you seem to think, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said.

“We’ll rally,” Michael added, still grave. “You know we will. You’re the one who connected us. Angel Network all. Islington is one of ours. We’ll deal with it together.”

“Raguel is in no state to help,” Aziraphale said.

Michael smiled that mysterious, irritating smile of his. “Lure Islington out into the open, if you can,” he said, amused. “Find a nice clear space, and pray to me. I can take it from there.” He looked at Chloe, offered her a mocha. “Your daughter can go,” he said. “She has an important part to play.”

 “She is a _child_ ,” Lucifer snarled, “we don’t need your pompous, cryptic advice for—”

“And Crowley?” Michael added, over Lucifer’s impending rant, “Strike. And strike true.”

Crowley pursed his lips and very carefully did not tell Michael where he could shove his advice. Bloody archangels.

“Beatrice,” Michael added. He reached for one of his wings and pulled out two feathers, before striding over, kneeling down, and offering them to her. When she took them, looking skeptical, he miracled a cord around them. “Don’t wear them just yet,” Michael said. “They’ll render you invisible to any angel, including Lucifer. Including Islington.” He winked.

Lucifer growled.

“I don’t like you,” Trixie told Michael.

“I know,” said Michael. “Use my feathers anyway.”

Trixie frowned. Then she nodded and stuffed them into her pocket.

Michael put his huge thing of coffee cups on the coffee table. “Open space,” he told Aziraphale, and then strode out through the hole in the wall.

There was a short silence.

“Seriously?” blurted Mazikeen. “Seriously? That’s the great Archangel Michael? The general of the Heavenly Host? Unstoppable in battle?”

Aziraphale picked his way back to Crowley and offered him an iced mocha. Crowley took it and slurped. Ugh, too sweet. Michael had absolutely no taste.

“That’s Michael,” sighed Amenadiel. “I’m going to go back to Heaven. I have to investigate this Naomi. This is very disturbing.”

Mazikeen nodded. “I’ll hunt for imps,” she said flatly. “No mercy.”

Crowley tried very hard not to care. They were from Nightmare World. But his heart still twisted. He watched Mazikeen, the most terrifying demon in Hell, march herself out through the hole in the wall. Amenadiel left through the actual door, because apparently time on earth had made him civilized.

“Boreas,” Aziraphale called quietly, “Meus amicus, vene mihi.” He had a letter in his hand.

Boreas liked Aziraphale much more than it did Crowley. Stood to reason. Aziraphale had cultivated that relationship; he actually read to Boreas. Often, and with relish. Once, Crowley had curled up on his lap, a serpent, and listened to Aziraphale read Plato’s Symposium in the original Greek, the funny bits where everyone argued about whether Achilles was a top or a bottom, even though it made him flush, because he knew Crowley liked it. Boreas had crouched in the corner of the darkened bookshop, listening. It always listened, when Aziraphale read aloud. Frankly, so did Crowley.

The North Wind took Aziraphale’s letter with minimal fuss. Crowley watched it disappear.

London Below, he thought. He sighed. “Chloe,” he murmured, “If we’re doing this, I’m going to need something from you. Do you have a favorite necklace? Something roundish is preferable for this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” Lucifer growled.

“You haven’t been to the Below cities very much, have you?” Aziraphale asked Lucifer tiredly.

“I saw no need,” Lucifer said.

“Humans get trapped down there,” Aziraphale said. “Like flies in amber. Crowley’s going to make her an amulet, aren’t you, my dear?” He smiled warmly at Crowley. Crowley refrained from cuddling him, because he was a demon, and that was Lucifer over there and Lucifer’s kind of freaked out looking girlfriend[2], and he did have some dignity.

“So you can get out again,” Crowley told Chloe gently. He saw her swallow.

“It won’t wreck the necklace?” Chloe asked[3].  

Crowley shook his head. “If anything it’ll make it more resilient. Helps if it’s personal, is all.”

“Do I need one?” asked Trixie.

“Absolutely,” Crowley told her. “A necklace, or a ring is good too. Something round. And while we’re down there, you can’t take it off, not for a second, do you understand? Or you’ll become part of the Below.”

“I’m really not liking this,” Lucifer growled. “Just because bloody Michael said something doesn’t make it a prophesy. He’s a manipulative bastard—”

“I’m not liking that I had to kill eighteen iterations of Crowley before someone got me out of that place, but you don’t see me complaining,” Aziraphale snapped, patience clearly fraying. “We need to find Islington. Michael is irritating, but he is usually right.”

Dignity be damned. Crowley took his hand and squeezed. Aziraphale wasn’t human, so his palm wasn’t cold or clammy, but he was shaking, just a little.

“Yes we do.” Chloe walked up to Crowley and reached behind her neck; from under her shirt, she pulled a brass chain, with something strange and distorted hanging from it. She offered it. “Is this round enough?”

Crowley took it.  

“It that a bullet?” Aziraphale spluttered.

“Yes,” growled Lucifer. “Chloe, you don’t have to do this. You can stay behind—”

“He tried to hurt Trixie,” Chloe told Lucifer flatly. “What could I do against an imp, Lucifer? Would you rather we stay here, alone, without a celestial[4]? Because I wouldn’t.” Chloe said. “Will it work?” This she added to Crowley.

“I could stay with you—” Lucifer said. 

“No,” Chloe told him with a soft, sad smile, “You couldn’t. They need you.”

Crowley kind of figured that he was going to ignore the Chloe and Lucifer drama going on, because that was their problem. He dropped Aziraphale’s hand and pooled the chain in his palm. Bullet. The intent hadn’t been to kill, the intent had been to expose the truth, whatever that meant, but a bullet was made to kill. Then made into a necklace. An act of love.

Paradox.

He smiled, a real smile. He liked paradoxes, these days. He liked them a great deal. He could really work with a paradox.  

“More than,” Crowley said. “Angel?” He pooled the whole necklace in his palm, and then offered his hand to Aziraphale. “May I have this dance?”

Aziraphale huffed a breathless laugh. He pressed his palm over Crowley’s, over the necklace, and looked deep into Crowley’s eyes, utterly ignoring the sunglasses, blue into yellow and full of love. They did not dance.

What they did was difficult to explain, and they could only do it because the intent of the necklace contradicted itself. Crowley and Aziraphale contradicted each other. This made them unique amongst all of angel and demonkind.

Crowley poured demonic intent into the thing, and Aziraphale tied it up with an angelic bow. It was kind of a ward and kind of a hex and none of the above. It had a bite. Anything that went for Chloe in the Below would have a nasty surprise waiting at the other end. Anything that helped Chloe might have a spot of luck. And of course, a shield made by both angel and demon was as strong as could be; she could never get lost in London Below.

And it had the added benefit of feeling like Crowley was being wrapped up in a warm blanket of Aziraphale. Or something. It made his breath catch, anyway, and he almost missed that strange seed of darkness, hiding out somewhere in his angel. It was concerning, but he chalked it up to terror, and the threat of Heaven. He thought thoughts of love, safe in his own head to be soppy, and Aziraphale returned them, threefold. 

Aziraphale lifted his hand away. Crowley missed it, but he offered the necklace back to Chloe.

Lucifer was gaping, apparently sidetracked from whatever argument they were having. “That was—what the hell—” He actually looked scandalized, like he'd caught them  _in flagrante_ on a rooftop. “That was just wrong!”

“Course it was,” Crowley said cheerfully. Chloe took the necklace. It looked just the same as it had a moment ago.

“Chloe—darling—at least wash it first—” Lucifer fretted.

“What did you do to it?” she asked Crowley.

“Divine and the occult. The twain aren’t supposed to meet, which is why your boyfriend is freaking out,” Crowley told her cheerfully. "I've been told that, to another celestial, it feels a bit like being dumped into a vat of egg yolks." That had been Raguel, eloquent as always. He took Aziraphale’s hand again, not really caring. The angel gave him a soppy smile. Doing something like that made them both feel a little mushy--yolky, he supposed--for a while. No darkness here, Crowley thought, reassured by that smile. That was all Aziraphale.

“Ugh, egg yolks. I'm going to be sick,” Lucifer spluttered, and he did look a little queasy. "It's just wrong!"

“But it’ll protect me,” Chloe said slowly.

“More than,” Aziraphale told her. “If your daughter stays close, it’ll protect her, too. But I should make one for her, just in case. Have you a necklace or a ring that means something to you, my dear?” he asked Trixie.

Trixie darted to her room.

She came back with a knife. Kind of a large knife, with a round pommel.

“Trixie!” blurted Chloe.

“Maze gave it to me,” she said.

Crowley laughed. “Look at that, angel, would you look at that.” He did like the Decker family, he thought fondly. Filled with secret paradoxes. A knife for death as a gift of love from a demon. That was a doozy.

“If you’re going to be disgusting, I’m going to the next room,” Lucifer declared loudly.

“I think this should do nicely, my dear, but you must wear it somehow, and not remove it from your person, do you understand?” Aziraphale looked at her sternly.

“Maze gave me a sheath,” Trixie said. She had it in her other hand and held it out. It was long enough to go around her waist like a belt.

“Well done Mazikeen,” murmured Aziraphale, taking the knife. He looked at Crowley coyly through his lashes. “Shall we dance, my dear?”

Crowley laughed over Lucifer’s sound of absolute dismay. “Always.”

 

 

\---------

[1] Again.

[2] There is a little hamster in Chloe’s mind. It runs on a wheel. The wheel just got stalled and there’s a jam somewhere, and it won’t turn, and the hamster doesn’t know what to do now. This was all so above her paygrade, it wasn’t even funny. The archangel Michael just beat up her boyfriend for no reason and then gave her daughter some kind of amulet. Just. What.

[3] Chloe knew that question was totally idiotic, and that she should be asking what the hell London Below even was, but she was trying really hard not to think about the imp that almost possessed her daughter, or the fact that they had to go to not just London but some weird terrifying Below version of London where she might get trapped forever and holy God—Satan—whatever—how had her life come to this?

Anyway. She really liked her necklace, and she wasn’t about to give it to Crowley if he was going to ruin it, no matter how big and sad his creepy yellow eyes* got.  
  
*Chloe really, really liked Crowley. He was a wonderful friend, and the most down to earth, normal celestial she knew, and this included Lucifer. As a snake, he put up with Trixie treating him like a cuddly, soft toy, and never once threatened to bite her. But his eyes would never not be creepy. 

[4] Chloe really, really hated relying on someone else for safety, but she also knew when she was beat. That imp was nothing to Crowley, but without a friendly Greater Demon hanging around, that story would have had a different, more brutal ending. Much of her experience with celestials had been of the cuddly variety, Lucifer who wanted kisses and Mazikeen who liked violent movies, and a Serpent who liked chin scratches, never mind Amenadiel and Aziraphale.  She knew there was more to that story, though. She knew there were bad ones, too, and that was terrifying, and so beyond her scope it was laughable. If she was going to stay behind, she would be terrified. More imps might come, and on her own, she was laughably unprepared. She wanted someone with her, someone strong enough to fight them off. Since no one was staying behind, she was going to damn well follow them, and come Hell or high water, Trixie was going to be under the protection of someone who loved her, and that someone was going to have wings. 


	4. Chapter 4

There were several ways to get to London Below. You had to kind of squeeze yourself between dimensions, really, because Below was kind of superimposed with Above, but there were ways and ways, especially if you were a celestial.

Aziraphale assured him that there was indeed an LA Below, though he had never been. They could have gone through that way, but that probably would have been awful, and Crowley hadn’t liked cowboys when they had actually been a thing, so he vetoed that[1]. The other way was to go to London Above, and use a doorway. That was quicker, and frankly safer, so they did that.

Aziraphale said that Islington’s jailers, besides himself, had been the Blackfriars, so he directed them to Blackfriar’s Bridge in London Above, where he knew a door that led to Below, and straight into their abbey. His wings were wide and cream and beautiful, and Crowley watched them soar with abject relief. His tertiaries were all funny though, like he’d been pulling at them. Crowley wanted to croon like a bloody turtledove and fix them, but he focused on flying. Time and a place.

Zephyr was waiting for them when they touched down on the pier of Blackfriar’s Bridge. Around them, the Thames roared, and the sounds of the city filtered down from above. The ledge on the pier was small, but they all fit, clustered around the large cement support in the middle of the river, holding up the bridge. The salt spray from the Thames would have been pleasant, except that it was the Thames, and Crowley knew what went into the Thames, what had been going in there for hundreds of not thousands of years[2].  Gross.

 Zephyr gamboled up to him. Crowley had a giggly, windswept Trixie riding piggy-back, but he took the letter anyway. She made to read over his shoulder, but Crowley read aloud to everyone, just to expedite things.

_Crowley and Aziraphale,_

_Naomi is incredibly dangerous! I am pleased to hear that you are well, Aziraphale, but I am frankly appalled that you even met her. I believed her dead for some years, but she is slippery, it seems, and manipulative. I do not know how she got to your world, but it may be that she is in search of angels to brainwash; there are very few left here, and without them, Heaven is falling into disarray. As you are a Cherubim, technically speaking, it is possible that she was hoping that that would translate into something like Archangel, in our universe (as our titles, as you know, are quite different). You must not let her capture you; she cannot be trusted. She will steal your memories, Aziraphale, and bend you to her will!_

Crowley had to stop, because that was frankly awful. He sought out Aziraphale’s eyes, horrified. Aziraphale’s face had drained of color. Just when he thought Nightmare World couldn’t get any worse, Castiel sent them a letter, and proved him dead wrong.

Lucifer had carefully let Chloe down to her feet, though one wing curled around her, protecting her from the salt spray of the Thames. “So, that’s terrible,” he commented.

 _I don’t know how she got there,_ Castiel continued, _but Sam has been conducting research, and there is a disturbing pattern that is emerging. This has been going on for some time, it seems, but at a smaller scale. You have told me stories about Dog, the Hellhound; a year ago an enormous beast of a dog was found by a shelter in Alabama; upon receiving the name ‘Woofer,’ it shrank to a mutt with a distinctive bark.  In your world, hellhounds become their names, yes? It is not so here. Crowley, two months ago we fought a monster none of us had ever seen before, in Wyoming. Sam kept calling it a Jekyll and Hyde beast. Similar to a werewolf, but it only becomes human during the new moon. I didn’t think to ask you—is this from your world?_

“Werebeast,” Lucifer said immediately. "We get them in Hell, sometimes, even if they're not dead."

“Chamomile tea will calm one,” Aziraphale added, because of course he knew that.

_If this is the case, if there are holes in your world, that is incredibly bad. I’ve enclosed a drawing of a devil’s trap, which should trap future imps from our world, but not destroy them. There is also a mark that Sam and Dean wear that discourages possession. It does not prevent it entirely, especially not from angels, but it does help. Please, have your humans wear it. We will do further research. If you can, send us a list of your monsters, and how to beat them, and we can look for them.  What are your demons like, Crowley? If I should find Hastur, how do I kill him?_

Crowley actually got a little choked up at that. Castiel, for all that he came from the worst place ever, was a good friend.

_Please let me know. I, and my hunters, wish you all the best._

_Castiel_

“Oh, don’t kill Hastur, Hastur’s an idiot but he’s useful,” Lucifer said with a sigh.

“What the hell is he good for?” Crowley blurted. Hastur had wanted his guts for garters for years, for destroying Ligur during the apocalypse-that-wasn’t. The unmaking had gone against all of Crowley's principles but it had been the end of the world, and in self-defense. Still gave him nightmares though.  

“He’s the best lurker we have,” Lucifer said.

“You prat,” Crowley said. Trixie giggled in his ear.

“Anyway!” said Aziraphale, “Now we know more about Naomi." He gave a weird little twitch that Crowley desperately wanted to soothe. "Once we reach the Blackfriars, and get a little more information, I’ll write Castiel. Is everybody ready?”

“We’ve been ready. My wings are drenched,” muttered Lucifer. Chloe smiled at him and ran her fingers through his coverts. He went a little mushy.

Crowley rolled his eyes. He looked to Aziraphale, who had always had a warm relationship with the Blackfriars[3].

“As above, so below,” Aziraphale told him with a sigh. He walked up to the column. He knocked on it, as if it were a door. “Hear my cry for mercy,” he murmured, “as I call to you for help. As I lift up my hands toward your most holy place.” He knocked again.

“Psalm 28, seriously?” Lucifer muttered. “That’s not even a good one.”

And then—well. Trixie gasped in Crowley’s ear, and Lucifer curled his wing closer around Chloe, because a door that hadn’t existed a moment ago swung outward from the column. Crowley had a weird feeling, abruptly, that weird feeling of standing in a doorway, or overlooking a cliff. The sounds of Above dimmed, just a little, like they were farther away. 

There was a man standing in the threshold. He was wearing a long black cowl, and his hands were hidden. Though his form was mostly obstructed, he gave the impression of being elderly, and also gently disapproving. Crowley squinted at him, and realized, all at once, that this was the Abbot of the Blackfriar's abbey. He looked strange, by daylight.

“Aziraphale,” said the man. His voice was low and gentle, and he was kind to Aziraphale's name in a way that not many were; most mispronounced it. Crowley knew from prior conversations with Aziraphale that the Abbot was blind, though he couldn’t see his eyes under the cowl. “I was wondering when I would hear from you.”

“My dear Abbot,” Aziraphale said, with genuine affection. “Please, may we have access to your abbey? We have some grave news, and an urgent need to speak to the Lady Door.”

“You wish to bring a demon, the devil, and two perfectly innocent individuals from the Above into my abbey? Have you gone completely mad?” Though incredulous, his voice was kind.

“Probably,” Azirpahale said wryly. “But I believe this affects Above and Below alike, as well as the next reality over. Islington has gone missing.”

“Islington is in Hell,” the Abbot said softly. “The Lady Door banished him there.”

“So we have this Lady Door to blame for this nonsense!” said Lucifer. “Great. Let’s punish her, and we can all go home.”

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. 

“Lucifer,” Chloe scolded softly. Trixie shifted her weight on Crowley’s back nervously. Crowley adjusted his grip. The Thames splashed beneath them.

“All the more reason we must speak with her, and quickly. Please, Abbot; I have helped you in the past, I beg of you, help me now,” said Aziraphale.

The Abbot wore a cowl, but his sigh was audible. He got out of the way and said kindly, “If any of your party harms my friars, Aziraphale, I will be most displeased.”

“They will harm no one, rest assured,” said Aziraphale. He glanced at Crowley, and then slipped inside.

“Ready to see the Below?” Crowley whispered to Trixie.

“Yeah!” said Trixie. Her arms tightened around his neck, though, and her heart was beating very fast. Somewhere, deep down, Crowley thought abstractly that if there was anything he could do to prevent her feet from touching Below soil, he would absolutely do it.

“Hold on to that knife of yours,” Crowley murmured, and, without putting her down, followed Aziraphale. He kept his eyes fixed on those cream colored wings.

The light of the day cut out as soon as they crossed the threshold. It turned into the murky, watery twilight of London Below, augmented by the abbey’s candles. It didn't smell like Above anymore, either; Below smelled just a little foul, always, because London, old London, smelled foul. Just the faintest whiff of horse manure. But the Abbey was clean, at least, made with old, old stone. Ugh. At least it was a Below abbey, and therefore not consecrated ground.

Behind him, he heard Lucifer step forward. Crowley turned to see him peer inside nervously, sniffing, as though he could smell an exorcism. Idiot. How had Crowley ever been afraid of him? Seriously.

“It’s so big,” Trixie whispered.

It was, he supposed. Great stone arched up and away, so their footsteps echoed, a little.

“Why is it so dirty?” Trixie asked him. It really wasn't, Crowley thought, amused. It was very old, with rust and mold and lichen here and there. The friars took good care of it. It just--didn't look like the Above world, that was all. 

“London Below, pipsqueak,” Crowley told her. “Everything’s dirty here. Okay, Boss?” he called over his shoulder.

“It’s not consecrated,” Lucifer said, and he sounded puzzled.

“Welcome to London Below,” Crowley said, loud and sarcastic. “Consecration doesn’t stick here. Just be glad it’s not cursed.”

“Cursed?” Chloe asked nervously.

“Stay close,” Lucifer told her, anxiety in his voice.

“They’re holding hands,” Trixie whispered in Crowley’s ear, all delight.

“Good,” Crowley responded. “You stay on my back, got it?”

“Mm-hmm,” Trixie said.  

Aziraphale had gone up ahead, so Crowley picked up a little jog to catch up to him. Trixie giggled, and he heard Lucifer swearing behind him, pulling Chloe along.

They passed through what must have been a great hall, and down a twisting set of hallways. Aziraphale seemed to know his own way; the Abbot was on his arm, since he was blind. Other friars spilled from doors, walking with them. Some of them said prayers. It made Crowley’s feathers stand on end, and a glance behind him said that Lucifer’s wings looked like pinecones, ruffled and unhappy.

Finally, they reached the nave. The ground still wasn’t consecrated, so that was something, but it was still deeply unpleasant. Crowley kind of wanted to hide under Aziraphale’s wings, except that would be undignified, so he refrained. Lucifer came up close on his left side, scowling.

“I don’t like this church,” he hissed. One of his pristine white wings brushed Crowley’s, a comfort-seeking gesture that he probably wasn’t even aware of. Crowley brushed him back, because he was right; this church was particularly terrible, even if it wasn’t consecrated. London Below was like that; everything was a little bit left of center, but twice as potent.

“How’re you doing, babe?” Chloe asked Trixie.

“Good. Crowley’s a good pony,” Trixie said cheerfully. She hugged Crowley tightly around the neck.

“Thanks, I think,” Crowley said wryly. He fluttered his wings nervously. “Aziraphale?”

“It’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale told him. He’d laid a hand on the Abbot’s, in the crook of his elbow. “If anyone should be worried here, it’s me; these men are experts at trapping angels.” He smiled tightly.

“What?” gasped Chloe. “Then why are we here?”

“Because these were Islington’s jailers, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “They named it, when it was banished, and so bound it here. They kept the key to the cell, though now as I have understood it, they gave it away for reasons I do not understand. You gave the key to the Lady Door? Where is she now?” he asked the Abbot. 

“To the Warrior of London,” answered another of the friars. He probably had some name that was a synonym with black. Friar Gloomy. Father Murky. Father Nox. Something like that.[4]

“Not the Lady Door?” Aziraphale asked.

“They were together,” said a different friar. “In the end.”

“Well, we need to speak with them,” said Lucifer sharply. He took a step forward. “Tell me, you must want something. What do you des—”

Crowley lunged and grabbed his arm, because yikes, and the rules of London Below were really different, and _also yikes_. “Bad idea,” he said hurriedly. “ _Bad_ idea. This is London Below, boss. The rules are different. They’ll know what you’re doing.” He shifted Trixie’s weight.

Lucifer blinked at him, thrown.

“Let me,” Chloe murmured. She squeezed Lucifer’s hand, and step forward. “Listen,” she told the friars and the Abbot. “We’re all on the same side. Islington is doing something, something terrible, but we’re not sure what. We need to learn what’s happening so we can stop it, and in order to do that, we need to find him. Please. We want to talk to the last person who saw him. Just talk. That’s all.”

“Islington is not a he,” murmured the Abbot kindly. “Angels may choose their genders, unlike humans. Islington scorned all humans, and did not choose. Islington is an it.”

“Could’ve chosen no gender,” Aziraphale muttered sullenly, like this was a personal insult[5]. “Perfectly human experience, to be without gender. Or both, or somewhere in between. No. Didn’t choose _at all._ ”

“It, then,” Chloe said, taking a deep breath. “We want to find it, and put it back in its cage, if we can. Please help us. If you were its jailers, we’re on the same side.”

There was a short silence.

“I can send a messenger for her,” said one of the friars.

“Please do, Brother Fuliginous,” said the Abbot. “Tell them to hurry, please. Brother Tenebrae, will you please escort our guests to the mess? I’m sure they could do with some tea as they wait.”

“Thank you,” said Chloe.

“Go mommy!” cried Trixie enthusiastically from Crowley’s back. Many of the friars chuckled.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale told the Abbot, again.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied affably. “You have a long way to go on your journey, angel.”

Crowley gritted his teeth and Aziraphale’s nose wrinkled. He spluttered a little, flustered.  “Yes, well,” he said, kind of uselessly.

“Oh, neither of them like that,” Lucifer said mildly, because he was the devil, after all. Bastard.

The Abbot slipped his hand from Aziraphale’s elbow as a second friar came up to him. “When the Lady Door and her Warrior arrives, they shall meet you in the Mess,” he said. “Please, have some tea.” The other friar led him away.

Brother Tenebrae bowed to them and silently led them back through the winding corridors. The candlelight flickered off the stone walls. Creepy bloody London Below, Crowley thought sullenly. The walls looked like they were from the thirteenth century. Better than the fourteenth, but still. He didn’t like how time just refused to pass down here. Flies in amber indeed.

“Don’t drink any tea,” Crowley murmured to Trixie. “They mean well, but the food and drink down here can trap a human. I can miracle you some, if you want.”

“Can I have a juice box?” Trixie asked.

“You can definitely have a juice box.”

“The drinks can trap them?” Lucifer asked, concerned.

“Think Persephone,” Crowley said, and Lucifer shuddered. He looked at Chloe, all wide eyed concern. Crowley watched him struggle with himself with some interest.

“I can—I can make something for you,” he told her softly, at last. “If you get hungry or thirsty.”

She took his hand and smiled at him. “You hate it when Crowley miracles things,” she murmured. “You never do it yourself. You told me once it was like asking your father for help.”

“Desperate times.” He smiled back at her weakly.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Really. Don’t. I won’t eat or drink.”

Crowley chuckled to himself. He really did like Chloe. Boss had excellent taste.

They made it to the mess eventually, and Brother Tenebrae fussed over the tea. Crowley reluctantly set Trixie down on a wooden bench and sat beside her. “Don’t go running off, now,” he told her, and handed her a juice box. Apple, of course.

She picked the straw off the back and jammed it in the hole. “I won’t,” she said, and gave him the biggest shit-eating smile he’d ever seen.

“Seriously?” Lucifer drawled, seeing the box. “Apple juice?”

Aziraphale chuckled. He came up behind Crowley and rubbed that spot between the shoulders for his arms and the shoulders for his wings. “Can’t help yourself, can you?” he murmured tenderly. Crowley went a bit mushy. He smiled at Aziraphale, amused.

“You’re the Serpent of Eden,” Chloe put together. “You gave my daughter apple juice. Oh god. Am I concerned?”

“Nah,” said Lucifer.

“That’s not really—” Chloe groaned. “Aziraphale? Actual angel? Am I concerned?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “No you’re not, my dear. He simply has an affinity for apples. It doesn’t mean anything.” He rubbed at Crowley’s shoulder again, affectionate. It felt wonderful.

“I think it’s cool,” said Trixie, who, of course, had grasped the significance all along because she was extremely clever. Crowley lowered his glasses and winked at her. She beamed and slurped her juice. 

Aziraphale sat down beside him. He took the tea that Brother Tenebrae poured for him. “Thank you,” he said, and sipped. Crowley tucked a wing around him, because some insane angel from Nightmare World had tortured him, and now they were up and about and doing things, when really they should be hiding in the bookshop for the next century or so. Aziraphale inched a little closer, clearly more stressed than he would say.

The friar gave Crowley tea. He sipped it. It was pretty good actually. Probably some ancient plant that grew on the shores on the Thames back in the day and was now extinct, knowing London Below. Crowley canted his eyes to Trixie's juice box and ensured that it was bottomless. No reason for the girl to run out and be tempted.

“Would you like one?” he asked Chloe, when she refused tea. He indicated the box.

“No thank you,” she said, the same thing she said to Brother Tenebrae, who Lucifer was rebuffing, loudly and rudely as he refused tea.

Chloe elbowed him. “Stop that. Sorry,” she added to the friar, who smiled at her wryly.

“I expect no less from the Great Adversary,” he said lightly.

Lucifer's eyes flashed red and he glared at the poor friar. For his part, the friar did not seem particularly worried. Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know they’re the real deal, boss,” he said on a sigh, “But they’re not going to chuck you in a cage unless you give them a really good reason, okay? Not for a stereotype. They only have one cage anyway, and that belongs to Islington.”

Lucifer’s scowl faded, but the red in his eyes remained. The friar was still not cowed even in the slightest, something which seemed to surprise Chloe. But then, the friar was from London Below. Monsters were part of his daily life.

“The cage belongs to Islington,” the friar agreed. “You already have a cage, do you not? I am not its guardian.”

“No, you’re not,” Lucifer said, and he seemed to relax.  He still didn’t drink any tea.

“So what are our next steps?” Chloe asked. “We find this Door and this Warrior, and they give us information. But the Blackfriars have already told us that they sent Islington to Hell. What then?”

Lucifer frowned. “I think we have to go Down There,” he said slowly, unhappily.

Crowley moaned softly. “Down There?” he said.

“Yes,” said Lucifer. “Retrace Islington’s steps. Find the holes.”

“We need the key,” Aziraphale said. “So we can lock Islington away again.”

“Isn’t that what Michael’s for?” Lucifer scowled.

“Michael beats it to a pulp and then we lock it away,” Crowley said dully. “Because it won’t go quietly.”

“This is all provided it’s in Hell,” Chloe said. “What if it’s in Heaven? There was an angel from Nightmare World there, after all.”

Aziraphale shuddered hard against Crowley. Crowley tightened his wing around him. “If it’s in Heaven,” Aziraphale said, “We’re dead. Islington wanted to destroy Heaven. But if it comes to that, I can take Michael Up There, and if I must I will take Raguel[6] too, and we shall bring the fight there. But we must have good evidence that Islington is there first. Michael will not budge otherwise.” He swallowed and looked down. “And nor will I. I do not want to go back there for a good long while, if it’s all the same to you.”

Crowley’s heart promptly tore itself to shreds. He leaned over and kissed Aziraphale’s temple, despite onlookers. How dare that Naomi hurt him, how _dare_ she. Crowley was not violent by nature, but he would take particular pleasure in sinking his fangs into that specific angel’s ankle. His venom couldn’t kill an angel, but it could make one miserable for decades.  

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Chloe murmured.

“First we need the key,” Lucifer said softly. “And if I have to go Down, my darling, I cannot take you with me.”

“We’ll look after the key,” Aziraphale said. “Chloe, Beatrice and I. I can’t go Down, Crowley,” he added miserably. “Not after—I don’t think I will—”

Crowley shook his head. “Stay here. Guard the humans, and the key, when we get it. If we get it. You know these things tend to go pear shaped.”

Aziraphale leaned into him with a small smile. “But I like pears,” he said, playful and soft and an old, old joke, and Crowley just bloody loved him. He leaned back into his angel, smiling into his eyes, even through the sunglasses.

Trixie unstuck herself from her straw with a pop. “You guys are cute!” she proclaimed.

Crowley jerked back and glared at her, not very menacingly. “I’m a demon.”

“And I’m the devil,” said Lucifer, amused. “She won’t be convinced.” He looked around the mess hall, empty but for Brother Tenebrae, who was quietly sipping tea in the corner farthest from him. There was no Lady of the House of Arch, and no Warrior. “Have we been swindled?”

“No,” Crowley said, “London Below is dangerous, but they’ll come. Aziraphale’s always been a friend to the House of Arch, and what with this Islington connection… they’ll come.” 

It took a while, long enough for Aziraphale to write a ridiculously long letter back to Castiel, but they did, eventually come.  The Lady Door of the House of Arch was a splendid thing, dressed in torn silks and brocades under a battered brown coat. Though filthy, she held herself like a queen, and her distinctive Opener’s eyes glinted and gleamed and changed color like opals.  At her side, was—well—a guy. He wore jeans, which was uncommon for London Below, and a battered T-shirt. He also wore a puzzled expression like it was permanently etched on his features.

“Look at you,” Crowley said to her, across the room, “You’ve grown.”

She smiled at the friar who had led her through the door and took his hand graciously before striding over to sit on the other side of the table. The other fellow followed at her heels. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Many years ago, my dear,” said Aziraphale warmly, rising to great her. He strode around the table. “This is Crowley, my Adversary[7]. I must say, I am very pleased to see you again.”

“I’m happy to see you too, Aziraphale, though the circumstances could be better,” said Door. She shook his hand. “This is Richard Mayhew, the Warrior of London.”

Ah. Now this one Crowley had heard about. “You slayed my beast,” he said, amused.

“That was _your_ beast?” Mayhew blurted. He looked more like an everyday guy off the street than any sort of London Below Warrior. He’d probably fallen from Above, Crowley thought, through some kind of hole and got trapped Below like a mammoth in tar. Seemed to have made a life for himself, at least.

“Not really,” Crowley said. “Mostly it was humanity’s beast, fed from Islington’s rage. I just gave it a little bit of oomph once[8].” He smiled like a snake.

“Door,” said Mayhew, alarmed.

Door was frowning at Aziraphale. She sat down, and Aziraphale and Richard sat with her. Crowley stretched a foot to tap at Aziraphale's toes under the table, since they were across from each other now. Aziraphale gave him a severe look, but his lips twitched. It was an eloquent look. It said, _stop that._

“So, you say Islington’s escaped. From Hell,” Door said. 

“We don’t know if it’s escaped from Hell,” Aziraphale said, “But it is causing havoc.”

“Islington wants a throne, so you say, Aziraphale,” Lucifer cut in smoothly. “There’s a throne to be had in Hell. And it’s bloody welcome to it, if it would just stop letting all the damned imps out.” He smiled at Door, charming. “Lucifer Morningstar,” he said. “King of Hell.”

“…Oh,” breathed Door. Her eyes went a little wide. She didn’t quite fall under his spell, the way most women did, but she did relax a little. Mayhew, on the other hand, swore and staggered back from the table.

“What?” he blurted. “I mean, what? Twenty years Below and I keep thinking, I keep thinking okay that’s the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen but are you telling me that the actual Devil is sitting there and—and—”

“You must understand that Islington hated humans,” Aziraphale said sharply. “It did not attempt to experience the world as a human, nor to blend in. It appeared ethereal out of absolute disdain. The very fact that I, and Crowley, and Lucifer look as human as we do is actually a mark of our high regard. Please sit down, Mr. Mayhew. There is much to discuss.”

Mayhew gaped, and then looked to Lady Door, who shrugged at him. “For what it’s worth,” she said softly, “Aziraphale has always been kind to the House of Arch. It was one of the reasons I trusted Islington so quickly, when I should not have.”

Mayhew slunk back to the table.

“If you like humans then why do you have snake eyes?” whispered Trixie to Crowley.

“Because when I try to get rid of them it gives me a migraine,” Crowley whispered back. “I like you a lot but not that much.”

Trixie giggled.

“Who might you be, then?” Door asked Trixie warmly. Lucifer growled his fearsome archdemon's growl, protective. Chloe poked him, eyes narrowed and a little calculating[9], and he stopped.

“My name’s Trixie,” said Trixie, with a glance to her mother. “That’s my mommy. Her name’s Chloe. Lucifer’s her boyfriend, and Crowley’s her friend, so we came to help.”

“You’re from Above,” Door said, surprised.

“And under our protection,” Aziraphale said quietly, without any sort of threat. “They should be able pass through Below and then go home at the end of the day.”

“Seriously?” said Mayhew, skeptical.

“Don’t underestimate a very determined demon,” Crowley said dryly.

“All that aside,” Chloe said softly. “We are looking for Islington. Terrible things have been happening Above, and we think Islington is the cause. We need to put it back in the cage.”

Door thought about this. “Islington did a great deal of damage from within the cage,” she said. “It had my family murdered.”

“Then we’ll close off the second entrance,” Aziraphale said. “The Angelus in the museum. I used to visit that way, but after—” he looked at Crowley. _After Naomi,_ he wasn’t saying, “I will no longer. It will no longer be part of Angel Network.”

“Ouch,” said Lucifer gleefully.

“And the Key?” asked Door.

“I’m sure Michael would love to be posted in London Below,” Aziraphale said slowly. “Or perhaps we can hide it with Castiel, in Nightmare World. Regardless, Angel Network will guard it.”

Door shook her head. “The Key belongs with the Blackfriars. Leave it here but give them a way to call you if it should all go wrong.”

“You’ll help us then,” Chloe said.

“I’ll think about it,” Door said flatly. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, but the last time I trusted an angel, things went rather badly.”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other sheepishly. That was kind of a fair point.

“Then trust me,” Chloe said. “I’m from the Above world. I’m not even from London; I’m from Los Angeles. I have no stake whatsoever in London Below. I just want Islington to stop hurting people. I want the angel back in the cage.”

Door regarded her thoughtfully with her strange opal eyes. “Owe me a favor,” she said slowly.

“What?” Lucifer spat, “No, not Chloe, I’ll do it—”

“Lucifer,” Chloe hissed, but Door interrupted her.

“Okay,” she said. “Lucifer Morningstar, owe me a favor, and I’ll help you. A favor to the House of Arch, to be called upon when I, or my descendants, or Richard, sees fit.”

That was a tall order. Door herself was finite. The House of Arch could and had persisted for centuries, and the thing was, they weren't like Above families. Any descendant of Door's would know exactly what Lucifer was, without doubt or artifice, and what he was capable of. That was… that was some hefty payment. That could more than just turn the tide of a war; that could change London Below forever, in the Lady Door’s image, if she so wanted.

“Done,” said Lucifer, before Crowley could comment.

 “Lucifer,” Chloe hissed, “Lucifer what did you just do?”

“I bought us the most powerful ally I could find,” he said flatly, and something about his tone suggested King Lucifer of Hell making a treaty, not Lucifer who owned Lux and played with humans. It made Crowley sit up straighter. “I know about the Lady Door. You can close portals, can you not?”

The Lady Door nodded.

“I may need to ask you to do that,” Lucifer said. “I think Islington may be opening holes between this world and another, more frightening world, but I have to find them, first.”

She nodded. “Alright. You’re the King of Hell,” she added slowly. When he nodded, she continued, “There’s a door to Hell in Islington’s cage.  That’s where I threw it, and where I last saw it. It was around thirty years ago, though. The trail may be cold. I can still take you there.”

Lucifer shook his head. “Time runs differently in Hell,” he said. “Faster and slower, all at once. It might not have been as long, for Islington. If I were a rogue angel, and I were in Hell, I’d—well.” He scowled.

“Wait til the king buggered off and then have a field day,” Crowley drawled.  “Might have taken the bastard a bit to figure out just how it wanted to wreck the world.” Aziraphale nudged him. “What?” He glared out of his pretty blue eyes. Crowley made a face.

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Don’t speculate,” she said. Aziraphale made an approving sound.  “Going to the last known location is helpful.” She glanced at Lucifer, who glanced back at her, clearly not liking it.

“We’ll need access to the key to Islington’s cage,” Aziraphale said slowly. “So we can lock it, when we find it.”

Mayhew spoke up. “It’s here. With the Blackfriars. When the time comes, they’ll let us use it if I ask. Technically it belongs to me.” He puffed up, like that made him feel extremely important. Crowley resisted the urge to roll his eyes.   

“So you’re—going to go back,” Chloe told Lucifer softly. “To Hell. With Crowley.”

It was the ‘with Crowley’ part that Crowley hated. He sighed and looked regretfully at Aziraphale, who smiled at him. It didn't help.  

“Darling,” murmured Lucifer, “It’s the only option. That is Islington’s last known location, as you said, and moreover this imp situation is—not ideal.”

“But you’ll come back,” Chloe said quietly.

“Yes,” Lucifer said. “Absolutely. I promise.” He took her hand and kissed her palm.

Chloe nodded. “Find evidence,” she said, still a little shaky. “We still need to know how that Naomi got here, and how she got to Heaven.” She glanced at Aziraphale. “And if Islington isn’t in Hell, we need evidence of where he might be. Okay?”

Lucifer nodded. “Don’t eat or drink anything in the Below,” he told her and Trixie urgently. “And don’t wander from the Blackfriars. I have not spent time here, but Aziraphale is right; it is very, very dangerous, and not in the ways you might expect.”

“He’s right,” Mayhew said cheerfully, “I lost my first friend down here on the Night's Bridge. Below is a terrible place, really.” He smiled like a moron.

Aziraphale sighed. He tapped his toes against Crowley’s. “Be careful, my dear,” he murmured.

Crowley tapped him back. “Always,” he said with a sad smile. “You too.”

Aziraphale smiled back, and it hurt, because Crowley knew he was still frightened of whatever this Naomi did to him. Being separated after that was, in a word, terrible. But they needed to go to Hell. They needed to find Islington.

Crowley got to his feet reluctantly. Lucifer met his eyes and followed. Everything was terrible and they were all going to die.

 

 

 

 

______

[1] Crowley had this idea that LA Below would be filled with cowboys and Spaniards slaughtering Native Americans. He wasn’t wrong.

[2] The Thames is actually much cleaner than it was, but Crowley remembered the Great Stink, okay, and that kind of thing just didn’t go away.

[3] Aziraphale had mixed feelings about London Below. He visited every fifty years, of course, because though Islington was a prisoner, technically Aziraphale’s prisoner, and very unpleasant, it still deserved visitors. Technically speaking, Islington had been the very first member of Angel Network, for all that its false, saccharine kindness made Aziraphale’s feathers stand on end. London Below didn’t change nearly as fast as Above did, and that was reassuring, but it was a disturbing place. The friars did make lovely tea, though.

[4] His name was Father Tenebrae, and he did not like the Fallen in his church, no he did not. He had had tea with the angel Aziraphale before, but he rather thought the angel’s sanity walked a tripwire, and he knew what happened when an angel lost its mind.

[5] Aziraphale really did find this terribly irritating. It was simple negligence! No gender would have been such a lovely, human choice! Or a gender that was fluid and in between could have been beautiful, too. Instead Islington had simply refused, like a stubborn child, disdainful of anything human. It had barely even bothered to contain its own divinity, dazzling any human who saw it. Infuriating.

[6] Raguel would hate that, but Aziraphale was thinking that if he held Raguel upside down and shook him hard enough, some of his Function would fall out of his pockets and maybe set Islington on fire. It was a nice thought, anyway.

[7] He said Adversary like one might say darling or sweetheart, Door thought, tentatively amused. She liked Aziraphale, but she also had a healthy mistrust of everyone of angel stock. 

[8] Crowley had found the beast when it was young and angry, and Islington was already old. It had still been a pig, then. Crowley had just…. opened the door to London Below, and the rest was history. Sometimes he’d brought it table scraps, over the years, as it had grown. He liked to think it had appreciated it, the vicious old thing. Too bad it was dead, now. He’d rather liked it. 

[9] Trixie was surrounded by people-shaped beings who would defend her, tooth, feather, and nail, Chloe thought. She was safe. If a child could disarm this Lady Door into talking, then so be it. This came from the part of her that was a detective, the part of her that was searching for answers. The part of her that was Trixie’s mom quavered and hoped to Anyone listening that she was making the right choice. 


	5. Chapter 5

Richard Mayhew stayed behind with Aziraphale and Chloe and Trixie, as if that would somehow reassure Crowley that everything was going to be alright. Richard Mayhew was a total idiot who wouldn’t know the stabby end of a sword from the not-stabby bit, so Crowley was less than reassured. What the hell was he going to do, die at them, if Islington showed up?

Anyway.

The Lady Door acquired a key from the friars, and then found a closet somewhere in the abbey, and she laid her palm on it. Taking a deep, somewhat melodramatic breath, she flung open the door. Beside Crowley, Lucifer made an impressed noise. Presumably he’d never met an Opener before.

Inside the closet was not a closet. She’d changed the door’s destination, as Openers were wont to do. It was very dark inside, and cavernous, and the squeal of the opening door echoed. Crowley snapped his fingers, conjuring fire. Lucifer made a face at him.

The Lady Door took a deep breath and then led the way, incredibly brave for a human, even if she was an Opener.

Inside was a long, unlit stone hall. On one end was a great, wooden and mirrored door, flung open to a stinking, twilight swamp. Crowley knew that swamp. Crowley loved that swamp. That swamp was London, a thousand years ago, frozen as though in amber in London Below. He shivered and turned away. Human magic was creepy, especially in cities, where stuff like that happened, weird pockets of captured time.

On the other end of the hall was darkness.  Beside him, Lucifer gave a call in Enochian, “ _Where?_ ” It was a funny word, just a trick of the way the language worked in places that echoed, because when it came back it called, _“No one! No one! No one! **[1]**” _

The place was big and empty. Even with Crowley’s superb night vision, he couldn’t really see the ceiling. It definitely had stalactites though, because he could see those, far beyond what a human might perceive in this darkness. 

He heard Door take a deep breath, as though reliving an unpleasant memory, and then she stepped forward.

She led them down the dark hall, which eventually opened up into a large cavern, with eight iron pillars, great and sturdy, reaching up to the gloomy ceiling. Really, they weren’t iron pillars at all. Beyond human sight, Crowley could see that they ended in points far above; they were stalagmites, iron ones, which was illogical but then again, so was London Below. Crowley could hear water. He shivered, even though it wasn’t cold. As far as these things went, it was a pretty terrible cage. It was frightening to walk about in it, even though he knew it stood open. Door could close it on them, after all. She was an Opener; opening and closing doors was kind of her thing. Crowley tried not to think about it too hard. He didn’t really succeed. 

He swallowed nervously and glanced at Lucifer, who was examining one of the pillars. Lucifer, who had his own cage. For the first time, Crowley wondered what it was like on the inside. Was it anything like this? Caves, dripping water, and darkness? How awful.

Lucifer put his palm on the pillar and looked up into the darkened ceiling[2]. Slowly, the feathers on his wings stood on end. He gasped a little, like he was feeling claustrophobic in the big, echoing cave.

He can’t break out, Crowley thought, watching him. He’s realizing that he can’t break out of this one. And if Lucifer couldn’t break out, Crowley definitely couldn’t. He shivered. He would most definitely go mad, in here.

But the final torture for poor old Islington was yet to come, because Door led them over to yet another door, one made of flint and tarnished silver. This one, Crowley knew, was supposed to lead to Heaven. It wasn’t locked; it was sealed. Door, incredible Opener that she was, had softened the seal and changed its destination to Hell.

“This is where I sent it,” she whispered, and it came out terribly loud in the silence.  “If I Open it, it reorients to down. We’ll fall through.”

Lucifer took a gulping breath and apparently got himself under control. “It won’t if I’m here,” he said. “The reality of Hell bends to my command. It’s alright.”

“Also,” Crowley said dryly, “Aziraphale will murder me if something happens to you, milady.” He smiled at her. “He’s been following your family for a long, long time.”

She smiled at him weakly, and looked back at Lucifer. “If I fall through,” she said softly, “Every Blackfriar, all of London Below will try to avenge me[3].”

“You won’t fall through, my dear,” Lucifer told her with surprising gentleness. “And if you do, I will put you right back where you belong.”

Door nodded, a little surprised[4]. She nodded again. She took a deep breath, and put her palm on the door.

True to Lucifer’s word, the world did not reorient. The door merely swung open, and at the other side, red, purple and white light played off black structures. Crowley got a familiar whiff of brimstone. He sighed, unhappy. He hated Hell.

“Close up behind us,” Lucifer said cheerfully, obviously feigned. “I can’t keep it from reorienting forever.”

“Good luck,” said Door.

“Thanks,” Crowley muttered.

“It’s not done yet, my dear,” Lucifer told her wryly. “I might need you to patch some holes.” He waited a beat. “I won’t call til it’s safe, though, and that’s a promise.”

Door nodded. Lucifer met Crowley’s eyes. “Shall we?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said unhappily. He let Lucifer proceed him and followed into the sulfur-smelling world that was Hell.

He heard the door slam behind them. There was something off about that slam. Something jerky, something wrong, but when he turned, Crowley didn't see a door. He looked around.

The door had opened into Dis, Crowley realized, the great, overcrowded city in Hell. The street wasn’t paved, but then, most of them weren’t; it was dirt, lava ash, and there was kind of a depression, a small one, like someone had fallen here long ago. Crowley scuffed a foot at the ash, and it rose up like a cloud. He sighed.

He really didn’t like Dis. Awful city, and the nightlife was literally Hell. On the full moon, the lava rose with the tide and overtook the streets, burning at curbsides and leaving weird lumps when it receded. Dark, geometric towers that looked like stone but were actually office buildings clustered in impossible numbers.  Their ground floors were almost always Hell loops. Their top floors were generally loops, too. One door among them would actually lead to the interior of the bloody building, and of course no two buildings were the same. The system invited mistakes, and Crowley had made a few. Crowley really hated Hell.

When Lucifer started forwards, he made to follow, but Lucifer stopped short, as if something had occurred to him. He turned back to Crowley, frowning. The falling ash painted gray spots in his hair.

“Walk on my left side,” Lucifer told him, and Crowley’s jaw about hit the floor.

“Boss—m-my Lord,” he gasped. Asteroth, the Grand Archduke of Hell, highest ranking below Lucifer Himself, walked to Lucifer’s left— _sinister_ , in the Latin, and the preferred side of Hell. Mazikeen, his favorite but technically a Lesser Demon, walked on his right.  Lucifer was actually affording Crowley a huge honor, for all that it would probably annoy Asteroth. Crowley didn’t know what to say.    

“I’m not your Lord anymore, Crowley,” Lucifer told him, and he actually sounded fond. “But you’ve seriously annoyed most of Hell, haven’t you? I want them to know you’ve been more than pardoned. Besides,” he added, starting to walk again so Crowley had to scramble to keep up. “I would promote you, if you still worked for me. Archduke, or something.”

Crowley squeaked. That was a higher station than Hastur.

“I—thanks?” he tried. Lucifer smirked.

“Just say the word. Do you want the throne? You can have the throne.”

“Absolutely not,” Crowley blurted, and Lucifer chuckled.

“Thought so,” he said, amused. “Can you smell anything? Do you even know what Islington smells like?”

Crowley flicked his tongue, less self conscious because in Hell, every demon had weird tics. He immediately wished he hadn’t, grimacing and spluttering. “Just brimstone,” he coughed.

“I hate the brimstone,” Lucifer sighed.

“Me too!” Crowley said, relieved that someone finally understood. “I’ve always hated brimstone! Dagon used to go on and on about—”

“—brimstone in the morning! I know! He’s insane!” Lucifer said, and they shared a grin, two Earth-dwellers in the worst place in all the Realms.

And that was when roughly thirty six imps with honest-to-Someone pitchforks rounded a bend and spotted them.

Crowley and Lucifer, as one, gaped.

Imps weren’t allowed in Dis. Imps weren’t allowed anywhere except for very specific designations, like the Sixth Circle, where they lived in flaming tombs[5]. Occasionally you’d see one or two wandering around elsewhere, if a demon wanted one for something, but that was rare. Lucifer had a bunch as servants, in his palace. Crowley had liked to make one do his paperwork, once upon a time. He’d kept it as a kind of Downstairs pet for centuries, before Ligur torched it in the early ADs.   

This many at once was unheard of.

The two Fallen gaped for long enough for one of the imps to gleefully bellow, “Charge!” in perfectly cogent English, when everyone in Hell spoke Lilim, and just. What.

And. Just, listen, Crowley really wasn’t afraid of imps but thirty six imps was a lot of imps. Also, Crowley lost just about every fight in which he participated, including the ones with humans. He braced to run for it.

He’d forgotten, in his moment of absolute terror, that he was running with the biggest, baddest bastard in Hell.

Lucifer stepped in front of him, spread his magnificent white wings and spat, “Kneel.”

The imps didn’t. One even tried to jab Lucifer with a pitchfork. That didn’t end so well.

The thing was, Crowley knew Lucifer was terrifying. He knew this. Lucifer was his boss. Lucifer ran Hell, Lucifer was the first of the Fallen, and he called himself an archangel but actually he was a Seraph, one of only like eight, the highest ranking angels, Fallen or otherwise. Lucifer brought Light to the Heavens and in Hell he ruled with an iron fist. His word was first, last, irrefutable (unless you wanted to die on fire), always.  In those early days, just after he'd Fallen, Lucifer had fought his way to that throne, tooth and claw. He wasn’t evil, but he was Lord and Master, and on bad days, those things were not so distant. In the past few months, Crowley had sort of forgotten this.

He liked Lucifer. Lucifer was alright. Lucifer had helped him and Aziraphale with the Leviathan Incident, and he’d given Crowley asylum when he was frightened.  Lucifer liked Earth, and ice cream, and alcohol, and alcohol in ice cream. He owned a ridiculous nightclub that might have even been too cool for Crowley, and he was just as delighted by sushi as Aziraphale was, and he practically wagged his tail when that detective smiled at him. 

But that was Earth. This was Hell, and in Hell, Lucifer reigned supreme.

He decimated the imps.

He was fire and rage and without mercy. His bladed wings cut them to ribbons, and his fiery eyes brought them to their knees. He was the King, and woe betide anyone who had forgotten his ascension to the throne. Crowley hung back. He shook a little, because he’d almost forgotten just who Lucifer was. 

The imps lay scattered across the road, groaning, easy pickings for other demons, who were watching from the buildings with hungry eyes. Lucifer went up to the nearest imp and put a foot on its mangled, distorted throat. 

“How did you get here?” he demanded in a low growl.

“We came through a hole,” it gasped.

Lucifer glanced back to Crowley, then to the imps scattered and broken around him. “Do you know the name Islington?”

“No,” they said, all at varying times.

Lucifer looked back to Crowley again. “We need to get to the palace,” he said, and he sounded dismayed. “I need to call the court. This is going to take forever, Crowley, I’m sorry, but the trail’s gone cold and if we’re to get a proper search party, I need my demons.”

Crowley cocked his head. “I have a better idea,” he said slowly. “What about a hunt? Hounds and all? Surely you have a good tracker.” A Hellhound didn't care about how cold the trail was. A Hellhound, a good one, could smell you in the wind. Normally that factoid was deeply upsetting, but today it might actually come in handy. 

Lucifer blinked. “That’s…. brilliant.”

“Just a couple hounds,” Crowley said. “Send these imps to plug up the holes. Say,” he strode up to one of the imps, “You’re not from the other Hell, are you? The overcrowded one, overrun by imps?”

“Yes, yes we are,” It said, cringing.

“Why’d you come here?” Crowley asked on a hunch.

“It’s better, so much better,” said another. “You can breathe here!” Crowley arched an eyebrow at Lucifer.

“Find the holes,” Lucifer said immediately. “Find the holes, show me where they are, and you can stay. This is my kingdom. I hear your Lucifer never established laws. If you stay here, you get a warm place to call your own, and you’ll never be bored. Can you do that?”

A warm place. Crowley resisted the urge to snort. Imps lived in fiery tombs, but to be fair, they seemed pretty okay with it.

The imps chattered excitedly. Those that could move sat up, and as a pack, they limped away. Lucifer let them go. The ones who were unconscious—they left. It was Hell, after all. There was no loyalty here, not really.

Except....maybe there was friendship. Crowley glanced at Lucifer, his friend, and then mentally stabbed himself in the eye for being so bloody sappy.

“What are the chances that that’s going to end terribly?” Crowley asked.

“This is Hell. It always ends terribly,” Lucifer said wryly. “That was quite a lot of imps. Too many. Come on. Are you up to fly?”

Crowley nodded. He spread his wings. “Lay on, Macduff,” he said lightly.

Lucifer chuckled. Together, they flew toward the center of the city, and Crowley took care to stay on the left side. They’d be seen, in the air.

From above, or as above as you could get in Hell, Dis was a black, ill-lit stain, with dark buildings and murky streets below, distant fires burning. Hot air rose in updrafts from lava pits, from fires, and the stench of sulfur was even worse up here. Crowley generally didn’t fly in Dis, because there was not a small chance that an actual dragon might swoop up and devour you. Safer to walk the streets, unless, of course, you were with Lucifer. Then all of Hell cowered at your feet, regardless. It was kind of novel.

Lilim, as a language, didn’t travel very far, not the way Enochian did. It wasn’t made to: it was made to whisper in the dark, low and quiet, Hell-born demons using it to gossip amongst themselves. But Crowley could hear the rumble of it, as they got near the center of the city, churning below. The king was back, and someone flew at his side, someone who was not Asteroth. Asteroth’s wings were dark green, after all. Crowley’s were black.

Crowley had two simultaneous thoughts. One was to puff up with pride, because oh yeah, he was the bloody Hand of the King[6] now. The other was to scream that Asteroth was going to _absolutely murder_ him.

But as they got closer to the palace, it became apparent that something was wrong. There was lava in the streets, and it wasn’t a full moon. Humans were stumbling about, dazed and confused outside their loops, and imps were upon them, biting and scratching and writhing and clawing. There were Lesser Demons locked in battle, with each other and the Imps, and not a Greater Demon to be seen. Crowley glanced at Lucifer, who was frowning. This wasn’t good.

Abruptly, Lucifer dived. Crowley followed, startled, and they swooped low in the streets. Lesser demons attacked imps; imps attacked each other. The place was overrun. Lucifer tilted, took a sharp, whipping turn, and he grasped something buried in imps. Something orange. Crowley gulped, but he followed Lucifer as he swooped up and away, holding the dull, burnt-orange wing of a kind of beat-up looking Belial. Belial flapped his other wing sadly, dislodging a gnawing imp. He drooped in Lucifer’s grasp, but he gave Crowley a baleful look.

They reached the Palace, and the square in front of it. There was an imp lounging in the arms of the statue of Lucifer that sat there.

Lucifer growled his archdemon’s growl. Crowley braced himself and tucked his wings in close to follow Lucifer’s abrupt, furious dive. Belial, in his grasp, made an unhappy sound.

“ _WHAT,_ ” thundered Lucifer in Enochian, frightening the imp from its perch, _“IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”_  

The imps wailed at the noise and covered their ears. Lucifer slashed his way through the crowd to clear a place to land on the front steps to the palace. He tossed Belial at the steps, and the archdemon thunked and tumbled down them[7]. Crowley landed next to Lucifer. He didn’t feel bad for Belial. Belial had tried to light him on fire, once.  

“Where is Asteroth?” Lucifer demanded of Belial and crowd that was mostly imps. “And Azazel? Bring me Azazel!”

“Azazel’s dead!” jeered one if the imps. “Murdered by Dean Winchester!” Around him, the imps catcalled and shrieked.

Lucifer went rigid, but Crowley knew that name, of course. Thank you, Castiel.

“Wrong Azazel, boss.” Crowley whispered, in English, trying to bring him down from this insanity. “That’s Nightmare World’s Azazel, not ours. Dean Winchester is one of Castiel’s humans. All these imps—they must be from Nightmare World.”

Lucifer glanced at Crowley, but he actually looked relieved. Well, of course he did. Azazel was a bastard, but he was Lucifer’s best general. He was the second angel ever to Fall. Of course Lucifer liked him, inasmuch as you could like anyone in Hell[8].

“I really hate Nightmare World, have I told you that?” Lucifer muttered.

“Might’ve mentioned it,” Crowley replied, just as quiet.

“And Asteroth?” Lucifer demanded of the seething, disgusting crowd. Why was he asking them? Why would they ever answer him?

Oh. Oh, of course. Because this faction, the faction gathered around the grand, dark palace had a leader, Crowley realized. There was one demon who adored imps, after all. Lucifer could probably sense her.

“He went to plug the hole, my Lord,” purred a woman, beautiful with long, dark hair. She stepped lightly through the crowd, and the crowd parted for her, fawning, as she made her way to the front steps. She strolled past the crumpled Belial. Crowley sucked in a breath, because she was of their world, the first imp, who wasn’t an imp at all. She’d started that way, but now she was a Lesser Demon, the Lady of the Lilim.

“Lilith,” said Lucifer, soft and mistrusting, because even he knew that this particular advisor wanted only his throne[9].  “Where is the hole? What happened? Where did these imps come from?”

“Why is the demon Crawly on your left side?” Lilith asked on a contemptuous laugh. Crowley shrank closer to Lucifer. Lesser Demon she may be, but she was the oldest and most powerful, and he had tempted her long before he’d tempted Eve. She’d stepped on his head, as he recalled. Her fall had been all her own.

“Crowley is my advisor,” Lucifer told her sternly. “My most trusted advisor, at the moment, Lilith. Tell me what happened.”

“They will overthrow you, my lord,” Lilith said dreamily[10].

“Why are you always so bloody cryptic,” Lucifer snapped. “Tell me what happened! Was it Islington? Did Asteroth fall into another universe? And where is Azazel? I need my general!”

“I cannot find him, my lord!” Belial blurted, shoving his way through the advancing crowd of imps and back up the steps. His handsome, dark-featured face wore only relief. Crowley shrank even closer to Lucifer, because Belial, despite looking kind of roughed-up by all the imps, was loyal and brutal to a fault. He was also an Archduke, and Crowley generally made it his personal priority to stay out of Belial’s way. “I believe he brought an army of the Lilim to bear against—well—I believe they were Hellhounds, but they looked like no hound I have ever seen.” He fluffed and unfluffed his burnt-orange feathers, trying to put them back into some semblance of order. It didn’t really work.

“Belial,” Lucifer murmured, as though relieved, as though he hadn’t just tossed the bastard down the stairs. “What of Islington? Has anyone seen Islington?”

Belial’s handsome face frowned, eyebrows crinkling. “Islington?”

“Aslitiel,” Crowley croaked, forcing himself to speak. Belial could squash him like a bug, but it was possible that no one Down Here had heard about Atlantis, and Islington’s imprisonment. Belial had once been Beliel, after all, and might know another angel before he knew… whatever it was Islington had become. “Islington once was called Aslitiel.”

“Crawly,” Belial growled, some of the beauty leaching from his features. Lucifer’s left wing unfurled, stretching protectively in front of Crowley and that was—that was really something. Behind that wing, Crowley glanced at Lucifer, startled and warm.  

“He is an advisor now, and you are to respect him,” Lucifer said flatly. Crowley peered over his wing.

Chastised, Belial ducked his head. “I have heard of no such angel,” he said. “Is he trespassing?”

“Yes,” said Lucifer. “Yes, it is. I have reason to believe that Islington is—scratching holes between this reality and the next, inviting imps from there into our Hell. It must be stopped. Do you understand?”

Belial’s eyes flashed. He was clearly pissed off at the imps, and who could blame him? They’d been gnawing on him for who knew how long, before Lucifer fished him out. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Their Azazel is dead,” Lucifer added, “Let’s be sure our Azazel isn’t. Lilith,” he turned to the sultry, smiling demon. “I need you to take your legion out to the River Styx. You’re to look for Asteroth and Azazel. Turn away any imp you see; they don’t belong to us. Send a second, smaller legion to look for holes within the city.”

“Of course, my liege,” she purred and, with a bow, sauntered away, calling a high, whispy call to the Lilim, gathering her troops. Crowley didn’t know much about the subtle, intricate games of Lucifer’s court, since he worked so hard to stay as far away from that nonsense as he possibly could. He wondered why Lucifer would give Lilith that particular order, Lilith who couldn’t be trusted[11].

“Belial,” Lucifer added. “You are to take care of the imps already in the city. Gather your legion[12], and pen the imps in—somewhere. I don’t care. The sixth circle if you have to, but I’d like to send them back to where they came from, once this is sorted.”

“Of course, milord.” Belial bowed deeply, spreading his burnt-orange wings. He gave Crowley a baleful look. “Milord, if I may inquire, that snake—”

“—is my decision,” Lucifer snapped. “Away with you.”

Belial bowed again and leaped into the air. The downdraft of his orange wings blew Crowley’s hair back.

“This is very bad,” Lucifer told Crowley.

Crowley had no idea that Belial didn’t like him. That was very bad indeed, but probably not what Lucifer was talking about. “So,” he said, “No sign of Islington itself, but like a zillion imps running around, and Azazel and Asteroth are gone. I’d say that’s pretty bad.”

Lucifer smiled wryly. “You know, so far, you’re my favorite advisor,” he said. “You actually possess a sense of humor.”

“Earth makes you funny,” Crowley said sheepishly, and Lucifer chuckled.

“I think,” said Lucifer, “That we need a Hellhound. Or seven. These imps in the square are eventually going to figure out how to climb stairs, and I’d rather not wait on Belial[13].”

Crowley looked down at the imps, their seething, roiling masses. Hellhounds were terrifying, but it occurred to him that Lucifer wasn’t afraid of them. “Say,” said Crowley slowly, “Can I have one? A hound, I mean.”

“Of course,” Lucifer said. “You think Chloe would like one?”

“After this nonsense?” Crowley followed Lucifer into the palace. “Absolutely. You’ll have to explain the naming thing to her.” He pushed open the front doors without any sort of ceremony and ushered Crowley inside.

 

 

——————

[1] The author would like to note that languages are cool, and do all kinds of weird neat things, and that this might be along the lines of an owl saying “Who?” There’s a Greek bird, called a Hoopoe, that in ancient Greek screams “Where?” because it’s looking for two princesses. Enochian is birdlike, so its pitch, stresses and volume may change word meanings. 

[2] The trick to Lucifer’s gilded cage in Hell was the ceiling. The cage had a lock, but the mechanism for the lock sat on the top. Lucifer had spent two years scratching at the ridiculous stone to create a hole big enough for his hand, so he could jam his wrist through and turn the cogs to open the lock down below. It hurt every time, because the cogs were sharp and the hole wasn’t quite big enough, but it was worth it. He suspected that the difference between himself and the other Lucifer was that he wasn’t squeamish about shedding his own, angelic blood. This cage had no locking mechanism. This cage? This cage was just stone. Lucifer’s breath came short. There was no breaking out of this cage.    

[3] Door had been busy, in the last 30 years. She’d made alliances, formed partnerships, created unbreakable bonds. Everyone, down to the smallest child of the Below, knew her name. She was a well-loved political figure, and if anyone could take Lucifer himself, it was a screaming mob of pissed off London Below denizens. Lucifer kind of thought this was charming.

[4] That was…. kind. Of him. The Devil was nothing like she had expected, but then, no angel was, apparently.

[5] Listen. Dante was seriously confused about the stuff he saw in Hell, okay, but then, he was totally freaked out the whole time and trying to look cool. No one could really blame him if he embellished in his writing upon getting back to Earth.

[6] Crowley loved Game of Thrones.

[7] Belial was not in good shape. Belial had just spent an entire afternoon being chewed on by imps from the wrong universe. It was humiliating, sprawling on these stairs and gasping for air, but it also gave him time to heal under his king’s eye, where no one would dare attack him. The political games in Hell were vicious and complex. Lucifer was demonstrating power, cruelty, and mercy all at once. Belial panted, and panted, and healed with each breath. He was so, so, so pleased to see his king again. 

[8] Azazel was sleezy, and smirking and smug, but he knelt at Lucifer’s feet with the devotion of a true fanatic. He was half-way mad with it, this obsession, but he followed orders to the letter, and he was a clever general. No one in Hell was good company, but Azazel would sit with him in silence, sometimes, when Lucifer couldn’t stand Hell’s noise but needed a companion. Crowley and Mazikeen were Lucifer’s favorites because they were sane, but he was kind of fond of deranged Azazel. 

[9] And she was bloody welcome to have it! But imps and Lesser Demons couldn’t sit on the bloody throne, it just didn’t work. If Lilith ruled the place then Hell would look like—well—the other Hell. Imps everywhere. Awful. All her undermining ever did was waste time and piss him off. Honestly.  Lilith was the absolute worst, except that she’d produced Mazikeen, and Mazikeen, at least, was wonderful.

[10] Ugh. There were many reasons she couldn’t be allowed to be Queen. Her creepy love of imps was definitely one of them.

[11] It was because Lilith was sometimes Azazel’s lover, and though their relationship, if you could call it that, was utterly brutal, she wouldn’t like him gone. Lucifer knew this. The best orders to give sly Lilith were ones she wanted to follow. Moreover, this would get her out of the city, and away from most of the imps. Lucifer had been playing this game a long, long time. He bloody hated this game, and he missed Chloe.

[12] Lucifer left off the _you idiot_ part of that statement because honestly, Belial, honestly, why would you not have already gathered them, especially if a bunch of imps were trying to _eat you_? Everyone in Hell was a moron.

[13] Because Belial was loyal, and surprisingly decent company, but he was also a moron.


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley had never actually been inside Lucifer’s palace. This was mostly by design, as Lucifer was terrifying, and Crowley had endeavored to spend as much time on Earth as possible. Now, he looked around, curious. The place was stark splendor, built from the dark rock that permeated Hell, but buffed to a shine. Just through the front doors was the throne room – not his actual throne, which was up on high above the city, but the place where he could take visitors and hold court. It was grand and intimidating, black on black on black but for the white, diamond encrusted throne[1]. There were servants around the place: imps all, but imps of this Hell, not the next, and they stood perfectly still, awaiting summons. They were finely dressed, all of them, for all that their skin was rotting from their bones, and their eyes flashed violet and black and orange. Lucifer ignored them entirely and led Crowley down to a basement.

Below, at the bottom of a winding stair, was a stable. Horses with manes that smoked gently, and sharp, vicious teeth tossed their heads over their stall doors and whinnied at Lucifer. They were hunter-horses, Crowley thought with a shiver. He’d seen them before, from a distance, tearing some poor slob to bits. He hoped they wouldn’t have to use them. Islington hurt his angel, and he wanted it very dead, but dead by hunter-horse was just…. violent. Luckily, Lucifer ignored them. He strode to the back.

There were Hellhounds in Crowley’s department, of course. There were stray hounds all over Hell, living in ditches and devouring the unwary. Crowley’s department, Temptations, was located in one of the many confusing office buildings, and they had lots of Hellhounds there, usually used to punish those who misbehaved. They were growly and vicious and terrifying, and they lived in very small rooms. They were not the King’s Hellhounds. 

The King’s Hounds all lived together in a large stall, lined with paper scraps. They were huge, bigger than any Hellhound Crowley had ever seen, and they barked at the sight of Lucifer. They were jet black, all, with blood red feet and a strange glow that came from inside, thin enough for their bones to protrude. Their eyes were red and hungry, their teeth long as Crowley’s index finger and curved like a tiger’s. Lucifer slipped into the stall casually, like the chest-high dogs were poodles, and then came back out again. He was holding a puppy around the middle with one hand under its protruding, vicious ribcage. He offered it to Crowley like it was nothing.

A little awed, Crowley took it. It was jet black and bony, but it glowed deep burgundy, just a little, like it had a coal somewhere in its belly. It wriggled in his grip, eyes bright red. Though it looked a sight, skin peeling and teeth snarling, bones showing, it was perfectly healthy. It was purebred, none of those mottled mutts from the office buildings, or the starving, stunted ones from the streets.

Crowley smiled at it. He took a leaf out of Adam’s book.

“Your Name is Watchdog,” he told it softly. “Your purpose is to defend me, and Aziraphale, and all of Earth, including the humans. I’m going to call you Watchie. We have nicknames, on Earth.”

The puppy blinked at him. It morphed, slowly, with the Naming – the puppy no longer glowed. It got bigger, longer, and its black and red feet softened to brown, until it looked like a Beauceron, though still a puppy.  It wagged its silly long tail at Crowley and yipped.

He couldn’t stop the big, stupid smile. He tousled its ridiculous, floppy ears, and the puppy wriggled happily. It was possible that Crowley had fallen in love.

Lucifer came out of the stall, another puppy in a bag over his shoulder. It yelped and squirmed. At his heels – or, rather, at his chest— at least a dozen hounds milled and snarled, monstrously large. “Let’s go,” he said.

Crowley gulped because that was a lot of hounds, and they were very big, and they had a lot of teeth. He hugged Watchie close for a second and then lowered it—no—quick check said it was a her—to the ground. She yipped at him and scurried around by his legs. Together, they walked toward and then back up the stairs—Crowley carried his puppy up them—back to the throne room, and then out the front door.

Belial had gathered his legion, and they were rounding up the imps in the square. That actually looked pretty under control. Crowley experienced a weird moment of vertigo. He’d never seen Belial do anything competent, ever; he’d only ever seen Belial give orders from on high that made no sense[2].

“Tracker,” Lucifer said sharply. The slimmest, sleekest of the hounds looked up. “Find me an angel, unfallen, who has lost its wings. Go.”

Tracker lifted his slim nose to the air, and inhaled wetly, once, twice, again. And then he bayed, a deep, hair raising howl, taken up by the other hounds, even little Watchie, who was sitting on Crowley’s left foot. Tracker darted to the front of the pack, shortly followed by two more, and two more. Watchie tried to follow but another hound nearly snapped her in half, with a threatening snarl. Crowley scooped her up.

“You’ll be able to take him when you’re bigger,” he whispered, because that kind of thing was important to say to your baby Hellhound, so they could grow big and strong. “Come on.” He held her close to his chest and looked to Lucifer.

“Let’s go,” said Lucifer, and started at a jog, following the hounds. The puppy in the bag on his back poked out its head from time to time. Crowley followed him, on his left side, because that was what he was supposed to do. He held Watchdog close to his chest. She gave little howls whenever Tracker did[3].

The dogs led them through the square, parting the remaining imps like the Red Sea. Belial, astride a hunter-horse he'd got Elvis-knows-where, nodded curtly to Lucifer, and ignored Crowley, as they went past. His attending demons, all Fallen soldiers, corralled the imps in some kind of order, flashing great dark wings threateningly in the sulfur scented air. Crowley didn't look back. He didn't want to know. He followed the dogs. 

Soon running became impractical; they took wing, gliding above the racing, barking Hellhounds through the streets of Dis. Crowley hugged Watchie close, and he felt the sulfur ash falling on his back, and he thought about how bloody surreal this all was.

The dogs picked up speed.

They wound through the city at an astonishing rate. Tracker sniffed, and sniffed and howled. There was no angel. But he had—something.  There was something in the wind, or on the ground. Crowley could only taste sulfur himself. But Tracker bayed, and he led them right to something weird and small and silvery. Crowley wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but he alighted next to Lucifer. He watched the excited dogs, and he didn’t put Watchie down.

Lucifer strode over. Crowley scrambled to follow.

It was—a hole. A hole in the world, sickening to look at, distorted and wrong, an on its edges glinted silvery blood, the blood of an angel who didn’t even bother to try to pretend to be human. Islington. No wonder the dogs were going nuts.

“It used its fingernails,” Lucifer said flatly. “To tear this. It’s recent. The blood’s dry, but still silver.”

It wasn’t unheard of, for an angel to tear a hole in the world. It was well within Islington’s power - not in its cage, of course, but outside it. It took rage, though, and perseverance, and the same kind of obsession and time it might take a human to scratch through a wooden wall. It was not an easy feat, or a pleasant one. It would have had to scratch and scratch and bleed to do this. It would have hurt a great deal.

Crowley flicked his tongue and then regretted it. All he could taste was brimstone. “You’re the one spending time with the LAPD,” he said softly. “I call Sherlock for this kind of thing, generally. But no one else has silver blood. The Fallen tend toward black.” Well. The Fallen who lived in Hell full time, anyway. Crowley bled red, and he suspected Lucifer did, too.

Lucifer nodded. “Killer,” he called.

Crowley blinked and then tried not to scream. He clutched Watchie close. Killer was the biggest bloody dog of the lot, up to Crowley’s collarbone at the shoulder, and it glared at him out of red, red eyes. Lucifer could order this beast to kill Crowley, right now, and it would do it. He could see it was waiting for that order, jaws falling open in a parody of a smile. Crowley froze up, a snake before a mongoose. In his arms, Watchie bared her teeth. 

“Guard the hole,” said Lucifer, and Killer's eyes darted away from Crowley. “Kill anyone who comes through. If Azazel, Asteroth, or Belial come to you, listen to them, understand? Just those three.” The dog huffed, disappointed.

Crowley let out his breath, heart tumbling over itself. Lucifer wouldn't, he told himself. Of course he wouldn't. 

“Come on, Crowley,” Lucifer murmured, and that was comforting because it was a totally normal tone of voice. Not deranged, or smug, or laughing. That wasn't a prank. Crowley was jumping at shadows. Lucifer was still the same Lucifer he was a moment ago. Still a friend. He probably didn't even know why Crowley was so freaked out. Now if only Crowley could get his heart to slow down.

Sure enough, Lucifer gave him an odd look. "Alright?" he asked. 

"Yeah," Crowley rasped. He hugged his puppy close. 

Lucifer took him at his word. “Tracker. Seek!”

Tracker howled[4]. They followed, first at a run, then in the air. The downstroke of Crowley's wings disturbed the gray sulfur on the ground, and it swirled in the air in tiny cyclones. 

On, and on and on, they went. They stopped for another hole, and then another, and another. They didn’t have time to close them, so Lucifer left a hound at each to guard them, but there were so many it was starting to wear down at the pack. They certainly didn't find all of them. Islington had been down in Hell for years, after all, full of rage and patience. It was just biding its time, waiting for Lucifer to look away. There were lots of places to hide in Hell, after all, even for angels. 

The holes were appalling to look at, revolting, the Hell on the other side rocky and hot and miserable—not so different from their own Hell—but it was _wrong_ in a way Crowley couldn’t describe.  One Hell was enough. The world didn’t need multiple Hells, and another Hell all overrun with imps was—it was just—awful.  Sometimes there were imps crawling through the holes, or milling about and giggling at their escape. Lucifer set his dogs on them without mercy, and Crowley cringed. He didn’t like it when they screamed.

There were other Hellhounds, too, from the other place. Sometimes they were just blocking the way. They were filthy, fur matted, and starved, and they possessed that peculiar quality that said they were invisible to humans. Lucifer’s dogs tore into them, too. King’s hounds, after all, were big, and mean, and powerful, and the other Hell seemed to have only mutts. Crowley and Watchie both watched those battles with huge eyes.

But there was no Islington, not anywhere. It was a dead end. 

Finally Tracker stopped in front of another hole. He panted and whined and growled.

There were only three dogs left, not including Watchie and the unnamed puppy for Chloe in Lucifer’s sack. They all panted at the hole, frustrated and tired.

There was light shining through. It was soft, and white, and it steamed lightly, upon meeting Hell’s black, dusty street. The sulfur falling from the sky went up in small puffs of smoke when it met that bright light, and it hurt Crowley's eyes. Crowley was one half of a paradox: he knew what happened when the Occult and the Divine met.  Without affection, or deliberate slowness or kindness to soften it, the combination was often explosive. The light was Divine. 

“That better not be Heaven,” Crowley blurted, horrified, as he fluttered to a somewhat clumsy landing. Lucifer alighted on the ground beside him, all grace. His shining white wings whipped up more sulfur. He looked at the hole with a frown. As Crowley watched, the light dimmed and came back, like there was a loose connection in there. 

That was-- _wrong._

“Not our Heaven,” Lucifer said softly. “The other. I'm certain of it. I'd bet anything that Naomi came through this door. I'd bet Lux. How she got to Heaven from here is a mystery[5].”

Crowley felt his feathers stand on end with horror. “I hate _everything,_ ” he snarled passionately. “Castiel’s Heaven? How do you know?”

“It just—looks wrong,” Lucifer murmured, and Crowley had, in fact, been thinking that. “Granted it’s been millennia since I’ve seen the Silver City, but that doesn’t seem—right.”

Crowley looked through the hole—or more like a crack, really. On the other side, white light shone softly, and that was familiar, except it flickered again, like that loose connection, and that was definitely not right. The light dimmed again as he watched, and then slowly came back.  Castiel had said that his Heaven was empty, and falling into disarray, hadn’t he? That was bad.

Islington wanted to destroy the Throne so, so badly. Had it gone through the hole, thinking that it led to the right Heaven?

“Is it in there, Tracker?” Crowley asked.

The dog gave him a disdainful look. Watchie growled, tiny and puppylike, in Crowley’s arms.

“Is it?” Lucifer asked softly, and Tracker took _him_ seriously. Of course it did. Bloody Hellhounds.

Tracker sniffed around the hole. Tracker sneezed. Then he sniffed the ground and wandered off a little ways.

“Islington realized it was wrong, and didn't bother,” Lucifer deduced, and Tracker curtly nodded his slim head. "Did another angel come out of this hole? One with wings?" 

Tracker growled. He put his nose to the ground, sniffed, then looked up. He nodded. Crowley hugged Watchie tighter, though not tight enough to hurt her. He wanted to break something. Preferably Naomi. He hoped Aziraphale was alright, back with the Blackfriars and Chloe and Trixie. Watchie squirmed, and he stopped squeezing her. He stroked her soft belly, and she squirmed happily, making a small puppy noise. 

“Good boy,” Lucifer was saying. “Devorat, guard this door.”

One of the hounds, the one with the drooling mouth and the teeth and the hungry eyes, because his name meant _He Devours_ , sat in front of the hole with a huff. That left them with Tracker and a spare. Crowley wondered what they were going to do when they ran out of hounds.

But it turned out the point was moot. Tracker led them down a long, winding path, sniffing the wind and growling a frustrated growl. Then he stopped short. Crowley banked abruptly and narrowly avoided colliding with Lucifer. Lucifer backwinged, not quite graceful, and nearly knocked Crowley out of the air. Both of them sputtered and tried to compensate. They kind of arranged themselves gruffly at an angle, and managed a spiral like vultures. They watched the dog. 

Tracker sniffed. He didn't run. Instead he walked, puzzled, down a side street, and then another, and another. The other hound followed him. It was all very sedate. He seemed confused. He sniffed the ground, then the air, then the ground again. He led them down another street, winding, unpaved. It was familiar.  There was a depression in the ground like someone had fallen there long ago.

It took a second to realize where Tracker was sniffing. It wasn't a door, so at first he didn't see it. It wasn't nothing though, either. It was the cracks of a door. Little patches of shadows around the square edges, the door itself invisible. Crowley would have walked right past it. It was a door closed, but not sealed, and not locked.  

Horror short through Crowley's heart. "But she closed it," he blurted. "I heard her close it." He hadn't heard the turn of a key though, Crowley thought, appalled. He hadn't been listening for it, especially since Openers generally didn't need to use keys. The door to Hell was a special case.

"No," Lucifer breathed. 

Tentatively, Tracker nosed the door open and walked through, followed by the other dog. It was weird to see; there was no door until it opened. As Tracker pushed it, it came into sight: flint and tarnished silver. The hounds shouldered it open. Lucifer folded his wings sharply and dived; Crowley followed. He kind of hit his head on the door but it didn't matter; they were back in Islington's cage. 

Tracker sniffed the air. He sniffed and sniffed, but they were back on Earth. Back in London Below and the smells were all different here, and he'd lost the scent. It didn't matter. Crowley alighted on the cave's floor. 

The dust on the floor was all swept toward the door to Hell, like a great wind had blown it. Or like the cracks of the door had been oriented to down and it had simply fallen.

"The door we came through to get here," he called to Lucifer, who was still in the air. "It leads to the Blackfriars." At least he hoped it did. He didn't fancy wandering around London Below, looking for the Blackfriar's abbey. That could take--ages, and it was dangerous too, even with the hounds. 

Lucifer landed with an inelegant thump. "Follow me," he said, and took off at a run. 

The door was still there, the one in the closet of the abbey. He sprinted through it, after Lucifer, like the hounds of hell were after him. 

And they were. There were two of them, panting excitedly behind him, with great teeth covered in drool, so that was sort of--not encouraging. Anyway, Watchie was in his arms, too. Her weight was a comfort, and he needed it, because as he barreled through the door after Lucifer, he inhaled and smelled old London, and of earth, and of home.  

It was the abbey again, sure enough, where they’d started, and it was empty. 

Tracker howled a great and terrible howl, frustrated. The chandeliers and the wax candles in them trembled with that howl. Shadows fled to their corners and shook. The other hound howled with him, and so did Watchie, and everything in that place that might have even pondered the Kingdom of Hell hid in fear of its Lord.

 “Chloe!” Lucifer cried as that howl died down, panicked, because he was no fool. He knew what this meant, and he’s apparently figured it out faster than Crowley, even.  “Chloe!” and it sunk in, for Crowley, really sunk in, that they had tracked Islington to the place where Aziraphale was supposed to be. Where Aziraphale was not. How had it known about the door? How had it got through? 

“Aziraphale!” he choked, frightened, and Tracker howled again.

“L-Lucifer?” gasped a small voice over that awful howl.

“Enough!” Lucifer barked at Tracker, and all the dogs quieted. Crowley looked around but saw no one. “Beatrice?” Lucifer called. 

And then she was suddenly, abruptly in view, right in front of the snarling Hellhounds, looking terrified. “Lucifer?”

“Tracker! Slasher! Heel!” Lucifer barked, and when the dogs slunk to him, chastised, Lucifer lunged down, to his knees, in front of the girl. “Beatrice!” he gasped. “Beatrice, are you alright?”

Trixie looked at him. She held up the necklace with Michael’s feathers. It had rendered her invisible, or at least, invisible to those of angel stock. “It works,” she whispered, and burst into tears. 

Crowley’s heart thundered in his chest. “Aziraphale,” he said brokenly. “Please. Where’s Aziraphale?”

“Gone!” wailed Trixie. “And Mommy too! Islington—the angel, the bad one, it was him, he followed Door back, he wanted R-Richard and Door, they ran, and its i-imps, Lucifer it was s-so scary—” She buried her face into Lucifer’s shoulder.

Gone. Gone. Gone had a lot of meanings, though, gone just meant not here, it didn’t necessarily mean dead, right, there were a hundred different kinds of gone, the Americans wrote songs about it; gone for the day, gone for the night, gone for the rest of your life—

Lucifer wrapped his arms around the girl. “Beatrice,” he murmured, and he held her close. “Beatrice, Beatrice, my Beatrice, I never should have let you come.”

“It w-would have f-found me,” Trixie sobbed. “All of us. That’s what it wants. It just wants to h-hurt people. It said it heard you." Crowley's heart sank, and he shared a horrified glace with Lucifer. Heard them? When they got to Hell? "When the door opened, it h-heard you. That it was waiting for revenge. It f-followed Door back to us. But look.” She took a gasping breath and pulled back. She pulled out her large, silly knife, with the round pommel.

There was bright, shining silver blood on the blade[6].

“I stabbed it,” she said thickly. “In the hip. I think I hit something, too, because there was light and it s-screamed[7].” She pointed to her ears, where there was dried blood. “But it hurt Aziraphale, and Door and Richard got away, and it _really_ wanted them and it got mad and it tried to hurt mommy, and I—I couldn’t let it—” Her voice went high and thin and she dissolved into tears again. Lucifer pulled her close, horrified.

Hurt. Hurt. How hurt was hurt? Hurt in the wing, a paper cut, a gaping wound: there were a hundred thousand things that could mean and now was not the time to panic, not yet, not til he was sure and anyway Aziraphale might need rescuing, right, so Crowley had to keep his cool for just a little while longer. Right. Right. He tried to breathe. It wouldn’t help to yell at the child.

Watchie whined at him, and Crowley realized that he was clutching her just a little too closely. Crowley readjusted himself so he wasn’t squeezing her.

“Don’t let go of the knife, darling,” murmured Lucifer. “If you let go, London Below will take you, and we can’t have that, can we? No. You did very well.” He kissed her temple swiftly. “You hid. That was wise. And you injured Islington. You slowed it down, so we can catch up. I bet you saved the Lady Door’s life, hmm? Did she get away after you stabbed Islington?”

Trixie whimpered, but she nodded.

“Good girl,” Lucifer said. “That's a life debt, you know. I bet she owes you." He looked to Crowley.

As far as Crowley knew, he wasn't wrong, but then, he didn't spend any significant time in the Below if he could help it. Too creepy. He shrugged. He'd have to ask Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale. Aziraphale who was hurt. Again. Why did people keep hurting Aziraphale? Aziraphale, who was warm and ridiculous, and a bastard, and liked pastries and just wanted someplace comfortable to curl up with a bloody book? His Aziraphale. He shuddered. 

Lucifer hugged the girl. "And you have done us a great service, my dear. We have Islington's blood. Now we can find it, and your mother.”

Trixie gave a shuddering gasp against him. She nodded. “Okay,” she said thickly.

“Would you like to meet my Hellhound, darling?” Lucifer murmured.

“They're Hellhounds?” Trixie whispered. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Lucifer murmured. “I have one for you and your mother, too, but that must come later. Will you let Tracker smell the blood? His name is his function, you see; that’s how it works with Hellhounds. He’ll be able to find Islington. It’s a bit harder on Earth, where angels are more common. The smells are different here, too. It’s like starting from scratch. Lucky for us, we have a fresh scent, hmm?” He indicated the knife. 

“Okay,” whispered Trixie.

Lucifer snapped a finger, and Tracker trotted up to his side. Trixie cringed into Lucifer’s chest, because Tracker’s shoulder was as high as her neck, and he had to look down to look her in the eye. He was huge, and vicious, with red, red eyes and long, wickedly sharp teeth.

“It’s alright,” Lucifer told her softly. “He won’t hurt you. Show him your blade, Beatrice.”

Trixie took a breath. She unsheathed her blade, which meant the sheathe was covered in angel blood, too. Bravely, she held it out to the horrible, horrible hound.

Tracker sniffed it with deep, wuffling inhales. He wagged his tail.

“Can I pet him?” Trixie whispered.

“Of course,” Lucifer said, with a glare to Tracker. Tracker let her pet him, but he looked confused about it.

Crowley cuddled Watchie, trying really, really hard not to fall apart about Aziraphale. It wasn’t really working. How hurt was hurt? “Does he have the scent?” he asked, and his voice shook. Watchie whined, wagged her tail, and tried to lick his chin. It helped.

Tracker looked disdainful. He didn’t howl because he was close to the child, but he gave Lucifer a curt nod.

“Yes,” said Lucifer. “Will you carry my sack, Crowley? I can carry Beatrice.” He looked down at her, quirked a brow. She nodded, teary-eyed, clearly preferring Satan to Crowley and that was a new one.   

Crowley swallowed. He hugged Watchie one last time. “Alright,” he said.

Lucifer passed the sack to Crowley. Inside the puppy squirmed and snarled and was generally awful. He carefully put his lovely Hellhound in the sack with the scrawny, vicious one. It hurt him to do it, but he could never leave Trixie behind. He shouldered the sack, and smiled at the girl when she climbed on Lucifer’s back.

“Come on, then,” Crowley told Trixie softly. “Let’s go find your mum, huh? She’ll be worried.”

He stood up straight and flexed his wings, so he could use them with his burden on his back. “Where are the friars?” he asked.

“I heard a lot of screaming,” Trixie whispered, trembling. “I didn’t look.”

Crowley swallowed. Dead, or possessed, then. “Ah.”

“Tracker,” Lucifer said flatly, “Seek.”

Tracker’s horrific red eyes gleamed. He bayed again, and together with Slasher, they were off.

 

 

_______

[1] The Greeks did get one thing right: the all the riches of the world eventually made their way to Hell. The amount of diamonds in Hell was frankly obscene. Of course, it was all worthless, Down Here. Still pretty for a throne, though.

[2] Belial had ordered Crowley to make bell bottomed jeans, once. Bell bottomed jeans were terrible, it was true, because they got filthy, but why he had been so passionate about it was a mystery. Crowley had done it, of course, because he valued his eyeballs in their sockets, but really, it had been very strange. Belial was full of weird ideas like that for Earth, but apparently in Hell, he was sometimes competent. Who knew?

[3] Frankly it was adorable. She was the bestest widdle Hellhound ever and Crowley couldn’t wait to see the look on Aziraphale’s face.

[4] “ _Awoooooo_!” said Watchie in Crowley’s ear.

[5] Not so. A few years ago, an archangel called Amenadiel patrolled the gates of this Hell. Naomi was clever, and her function had everything to do with memory. It was a simple task, to trick an unsuspecting angel, and then remove his memory, and such a joy to see the Silver City in all its splendor again.

[6] A blade simultaneously blessed and cursed, touched gently by angel and demon, a paradox blade, and the imps had tried but as long as she held it they could not touch her.

[7] In rage, because no mortal should be able to hold a blade that could wound an angel. But of course, this was no ordinary blade.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooo in edits this chapter magically became two chapters. Yay? But at least this sucker is now a rounded out 10 chapter fic, even if 8 is a little short and the other two are epilogues. 
> 
> Anyway. Here's the next chapter! Enjoy! (or, uh, hold onto your hats).

The abbey was huge and, being a London Below abbey, it was filled with twisting, turning halls that led abruptly to wide open, stone dining halls and ornate naves and then narrowed back down again to bedrooms and catacombs. It all had the style of the old time London sewer, all starkly beautiful brickwork in swirls and patterns, except where it arched away in stunning, gray stonework. There was no light to make the stained glass glow. It was grand and mad, and the dogs howled through it, echoing eerily from the high ceilings, searching. The shadows moved and whimpered as they passed. Slasher dragged one out, claws skidding and leaving scratches the stone floor; an imp. Crowley’s breath caught. He hadn’t even seen it. How many of the shadows were imps?

He looked again. He looked again, and again, and there were numbers beyond counting, cowering from the dogs. Watchie and the other puppy squirmed in his sack, wanting to attack. He hushed them.   

The friars—they must be possessed. So many imps; they wouldn’t have been able to resist. Unless the Blackfriars had some—some kind of human magic preventing it. He hoped so. Crowley shuddered, and watched Slasher tear that imp in two, before moving on.

They would need Amenadiel, an archangel, Crowley thought, to get rid of that many. He’d have to do a real exorcism. Where was Door? And Richard? Trixie also said they got out – maybe Door just made a door, and they ran for it, like any sensible London Below resident. Trixie said that Islington had wanted them. Stood to reason. They were the ones that had sent it to Hell in the first place. Why wait til now, though? Because Door had opened the prison, letting Crowley and Lucifer through to Hell? Could it sense that? Who knew?

The dogs howled and howled, and Crowley worried and panted and worried, and he and Lucifer[1] chased them through the old, strange abbey in London Below. 

And then, with a suddenness that was almost shocking—they were outside.

But not outside in the way London Above was outside. There was no sun here, not the way there was Above, just murky light that filtered poorly through the mist. The hounds’ paws splashed in the muck, and so did Crowley's feet. It was a marsh blanketed by fog and filth. The yellow fog that rose from the marsh was as familiar to Crowley as the stonework in Hell. He breathed deep, a little nostalgic, and let himself cough.

London fog, or rather the yellow river fog, had stopped sometime in the twentieth century, with actual environmental laws that actually worked[2]. London Below, being London Below, had given the ghost of that fog a safe place to live. This was a good, old-fashioned pea-souper, and Crowley had liked the fog, once upon a time[3]. It was yellow and it stank but it hid his eyes, and it was the best for lurking. He’d got a commendation, once, for the fog, and he hadn’t done a damned thing; the humans had made it all themselves. 

“What the hell?” spat Lucifer, splashing in the muck,  and Trixie started coughing immediately, hacking against his back.

“Pea-soup, boss,” Crowley told him, jogging to his side. Lucifer was a murky figure in the yellow mist right up until Crowley stood next to him. “London fog, or the ghost of London fog, anyway. It’s extinct in the Above, but Below remembers.” He placed a hand on Trixie’s back, thinking clean thoughts, and she breathed easier. She rested her cheek against Lucifer’s back and watched Crowley miserably. He smiled at her weakly, and she smiled back, unhappy. Poor girl.  

Lucifer was looking back at him oddly, eyes glowing in the mist. “You remember, too.”

“Yep,” said Crowley.

The dogs were snarling, walking in circles, sniffing the mucky ground[4]. Their feet splashed through the mud audibly. The fog had muddled the scent. But it hadn’t muddled sound.

Above them, something wooshed. Crowley looked up and saw an imp, black mist cackling in the yellow fog; it swerved away. It was laughing, and there was an echo—no. Not an echo. It was more imps. He was hearing laughter, like children, jeering.

In the distance, there was a very human, very angry, shout. A woman. Familiar. Lucifer went rigid.

“Chloe!” he cried through the fog. The only response was laughter, mockery. Crowley realized, slowly, that though the fog was a pea-soup fog, it wasn’t just fog. There was more than just one imp in it too, soaring and giggling as smoke, indistinguishable from the old, London pollution. He swallowed.

“Lucifer!” cried Chloe, from somewhere. She sounded strangled, rasping in the dense pollution. “He’s here! Islington’s here—shit!” A solid, human splash, and an inhuman screech.

“Mommy!” gasped Trixie.

“ _Where!_ ” Crowley called in Enochian, because they could play Marco Polo all night with Chloe, but if Aziraphale was out there, the Enochian could shorten the whole thing. It was made to find people who weren’t in sight.

Except the wrong voice, sweet and pure, rose up in the mist instead. Crowley would know that voice anywhere, precisely because it was not unique. Its beauty was unparalleled on Earth—but exactly like every single other angel to ever step foot in Heaven. His heart went cold.

" _Here!_ " sang Islington in Enochian, sweet and sincere, like the mother of a child, greeting the child's friend at the door.  _"We were waiting for you, Serpent, Aziraphale and I! Shall we sing, brother?"_

Crowley went tense all over. Bastard. Bastard--he looked frantically in the fog, and saw nothing, of course. Somewhere, an imp screamed with laughter.  

"Steady," Lucifer told him softly, and that was a bit rich coming from the guy who looked like he wanted to tear the world apart to find his bloody girlfriend. 

“There is a fountain that I see,” Islington sang in English, beautiful, the sweetest softest hymn, and Crowley’s feathers stood on end, “Filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel’s veins—”

“Lucifer!” shouted Chloe, urgent and frightened, over Islington’s ethereal song.

And then Crowley had a very brilliant, very stupid idea. Islington called him Serpent? He'd bloody give it serpent. Carefully, he put his sack down into the muck. By sight, by smell, he was never going to find Islington anyway, and his feet would splash. A snake though--he transformed, quietly, only the whiff of the swirling, disturbed mist marking his passage. He couldn’t see Islington, of course. But that meant Islington couldn’t see him.

"Crowley!" Lucifer hissed, but Crowley ignored him. "Crowley, you idiot, that is clearly a trap!" 

Crowley didn't care. Besides, he was a tiny snake in the fog. He's like to see Islington try. "Find Chloe," he told his boss, and he slithered away, determined, to the sound of Lucifer's swearing. As if Lucifer wouldn't also run off the second he had even a hope in Hell of getting to Chloe. He'd find her. Crowley knew this like he knew he'd find Aziraphale. 

The muck was cold against his belly, and that was fairly terrible, and it smelled of sulfur, though still not quite the same as the burning brimstone of Hell. It didn’t matter. This close to the ground, it definitely didn’t matter. He couldn’t smell, but besides Lucifer and Chloe caterwauling to each other,and the screaming imps, he could hear.

And Islington, like all angels, had a lovely, clear voice.

“The sinners, sinners plunged beneath the blood,” crooned Islington, and the imps in the fog laughed and laughed and Crowley thought there must be thousands of them, “Lose all their guilty stains.”

There were more imps, the closer Crowley got to Islington, like Islington had recruited them, or made them. They darkened the yellow fog almost to black, but they didn’t notice him slipping through the muck. He was just a little snake in a great big marsh, after all. Totally uninteresting. Crowley flicked his tongue. Still nothing but sulfur. Come on, angel, he thought desperately. Where are you, Aziraphale?

“Lose all their guilty stains,” continued Islington, a church choir in and of itself. Like all angels, Islington had perfect pitch, but unlike the angels of Earth, of Angel Network, its voice wasn’t gravely, or throaty, or an alto or a basso or unique in any way. Islington did not embrace human imperfection, or human individuality. Even Michael had modified his voice, a little. Islington sounded like a hosanna straight from heaven: beautiful, ethereal, and uninteresting, at least to Crowley’s ears. “Lose all their guilty stains.”

Crowley flicked his tongue. Sulfur—and more. There was Aziraphale. There was his angel.

Crowley was an ambush predator. He coiled himself and slipped forward, slow, slow, slow. Islington’s voice was louder. It had Aziraphale, of course. This was obvious. Aziraphale was Islington’s jailer, after all. Islington would be dying to hurt him. Crowley slipped closer, and closer and—there. A flicker of fire—Aziraphale’s blade, discarded in the muck[5]. His heart pounded in his internal, serpentine ears. Crowley slipped around it. He hadn’t gone three human paces when he saw them, at last.

The mist didn’t clear, of course, but Crowley was close enough to see.

That horrid creature had Aziraphale pinned. One bare foot pressed lightly against Aziraphale’s throat, another dug its heel into the elbow of one wing, holding him down. Aziraphale beat the other wing against the muck as Crowley watched, struggling weakly, but he had no leverage, and the filth and the stickiness of the mud was weighing him down. The second downstroke of that wing was weaker, like Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he was doing it. Both hands were on Islington’s ankle, but they were loose, confused.

There was a wound on Islington’s belly, and the angel was nursing it a little, silvery bloody running down its leg, staining its white raiment and dripping onto Aziraphale’s collarbone and neck. A weak spot, from Trixie’s knife. There were others, burns from Aziraphale’s blade, but Trixie had given it the sharpest, most unexpected wound. If Crowley were a fighter, that was where he would aim.

He wasn’t a fighter. He was watching Aziraphale’s eyes, which were huge, and with each word of the hymn, they were clouding with something awful. Islington’s beautiful, otherworldly eyes gleamed. It thought it had won. It hadn’t seen Crowley. 

Crowley wondered what the trap was. He didn't see any trap, but then, it was likely that Islington was expecting a man, and not a little green snake.   
  
“The sinners, sinners plunged beneath the blood,” Islington crooned to Aziraphale, relishing its victory, and something else, something more sinister. Aziraphale’s hands were going slack, slowly, like there was something in the hymn. Crowley couldn’t hear anything special about it. “They’re going to—”

Crowley was a viper. He was small, and reptilian, and made for surprise attacks, and though Islington knew the Serpent of Eden was here, apparently it never expected a snake to sneak up behind it in the middle of a yellow-fogged stretch of London Below, surrounded by buzzing imps. Most people thought the Serpent of Eden had to be something like a python, or an anaconda, or something large. Big snakes were impractical; Islington would have seen a big snake. Size didn't matter when you had enough venom to down a blue whale. Crowley coiled, and he gathered himself, and he struck, and he struck true.

How _dare_ that bastard hurt Aziraphale.

Islington cut off with a screech, losing its balance. It fell into the muck, jarring its wounded belly. The clouds and clouds of imps around it screamed, too. Aziraphale flinched, gasping. Islington made to turn back to him, but no way was Crowley going to let that happen; he struck again, and Islington shook with the force of it.

Aziraphale rolled away.

 “You!” screeched the mad angel, and Crowley darted out of the way.

Islington tried to reach him with a muddy hand so tense and furious it was almost a claw and Crowley tried to strike again. He missed, this time. Islington flinched and then grasped for him regardless, but it was bowled over: Watchdog, tiny and fierce and muddy and crying, had run into Islington head first. Good puppy, Crowley thought. He darted to Aziraphale’s side.  

“Come on,” he told his angel, frantic, “Up, Aziraphale come on, quick—”

Islington threw tiny Watchdog out onto the mist, and Crowley’s puppy wailed. Imps descended on her. He had one utterly horrified moment, before his dog was blanketed in whirling, raging black mist. Too many imps for one little puppy, but there wasn’t time for anything but brief, horrified shock.

Islington turned back to them, on all fours in the mud, bleeding sluggishly. Islington was a beautiful creature, whose divinity shone through its mortal body so it was nearly blinding. Even covered in mud and muck, its sexless face was serene, like a statue, like a masterpiece. Crowley looked at it, and its shining beauty, and he only saw carelessness and disdain. Islington didn't even bother to look human, to experience it. The bastard wouldn't understand, anyway, Crowley thought contemptuously. He nudged Aziraphale again, but Aziraphale only moaned.

Crowley licked his lips, and he watched Islington wobble to its feet and take one, deliberate step forwards. Ankles were disgusting, especially ankles of angels who went barefoot in Hell and London Below muck, but Crowley really was very venomous. This was now a waiting game, and the more Islington moved, the more the venom would spread.

He just had to get it away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale was trying to move, but there was something wrong, and it wasn’t going to be fast enough.  They needed time. They needed someone to distract Islington til it collapsed, and Elvis only knew where Lucifer was.

And then Crowley had an idea. Of course. Of course. He knew exactly the angel, the angel whose favorite past time was pointless battles that stretched and stretched. The perfect distraction.   

“Michael,” Crowley said quietly. “Michael, Michael, Archangel Michael, hear my prayer.”

“How did you—?” asked Islington, soft and civilized as if over a dinner party.

A rush of wings made the ghost of the London fog swirl. There was a joyous roar. “Battle!” cried Michael, and he thundered down from the sky with a bloody quarterstaff of all things. Crowley pushed at Aziraphale with his nose, but all he managed to get him to do was roll onto his back. He heard the wailing roaring imps scream and scatter in terror at the sound of the Archangel Michael’s great, bladed wings. 

The battle that ensued was brutal, and mostly out of sight. Crowley curled up on Aziraphale’s chest, hissing worriedly at him. Aziraphale blinked at him, eyes disturbingly empty. He blinked and blinked and finally some warmth spilled through and he smiled at Crowley, but it was vague and wrong. He had a black eye and might have been missing a tooth. Still, he reached up and ran his fingers from the top of Crowley’s spine to the base of his shorn-off tail.

“Hello, my dear,” he murmured, woozily.

“We have to move,” Crowley told him urgently. “I can’t heal you, I’m sorry; we have to move.”

Aziraphale scratched his chin gently. Crowley loved that. They still had to move.

Behind them, battle roared. Crowley turned to see. Aziraphale reached for his tail and played with it tenderly. Crowley also loved that, but there was a time and a place!             

 The venom was starting to take effect. It was hard to see through the fog, but every stroke of Michael’s great, white wings was setting it swirling, and almost dissipating. By now, Islington was too sick with Crowley’s venom to really fight back well. Michael seemed to know this, like it had been the plan all along. He darted and flitted, harrying more than fighting, keeping Islington moving. And the more Islington moved, the more that venom moved in its blood. Crowley watched the angel weaken with some satisfaction.

Islington was like Crowley, in a way. It was an ambush predator. Michael was just—full on predator. He flew and flew and harried Islington, until Islington finally fell to its knees and cried, “Brother!”

But Michael wasn’t stupid enough to fall for that. He got Islington in a hard blow to the belly, where the wound was, with his quarterstaff, knocking it back with a cry, and Crowley could see that that was the end of the fight. “For Aziraphale,” Michael spat, and added a second blow right between the eyes, and Islington was down for the count. “For Crowley.”

Crowley was a little flattered, truth be told. Battle was how Michael communicated; that was quite the compliment. Still, the violence of it made him feel shaky inside.

Michael swooped down then and grabbed the angel by the ankle and dragged it off, no muss, no fuss, probably the most disappointing battle he’d had in ages. Crowley gave not a single shit. He turned back to lean in and boop Aziraphale’s nose with his snout, in celebration, and to watch his eyes cross. That was one battle won, at least. Very convenient, when Michael answered prayers[6].

There was a long silence. The mist settled, and the imps crept back to fill the interstitial spaces. Crowley watched them with dread. There were _so_ many. Aziraphale twined Crowley’s tail through his fingers.

An imp came screaming down from the mist, abruptly and without warning. Crowley looked up to hiss at it and snarl it away, but something small and furry and furious leaped over his head. Watchdog grabbed the imp in her little puppy teeth and, upon landing, shook her head side to side then collapsed into the mud and proceeded to gnaw at the wailing imp like a chewtoy.

“Hey there, lady,” Crowley told her, delighted. She was alive! “Did you chew up those imps all by yourself?”

She looked up at him and yapped, wagging her tail, and then caught the imp before it could sneak away.

“Izzat a Hellhound?” Aziraphale mumbled, finally.

“Yes,” Crowley told him, glad to hear him speak, even if it was a little slurred. “She’s ours. Her name is Watchdog. Isn’t that right, Watchie?”

“That’s nice dear,” Aziraphale muttered, eyes slipping closed. “Keep ‘im awayfrom….books.”

“If you get discorporated, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown,” Crowley told him seriously. “I’m barely holding on as it is.”

“I’ll keep thatinmind.”

A second imp descended, probably thinking that Aziraphale was easy prey. Crowley hissed at it, threatening to strike, and it swooped away again.  Everything went very quiet. Crowley wondered where Lucifer was. He’d missed the whole fight.

Was something wrong with Chloe?

Crowley put his head down against Aziraphale’s throat. He sighed, because the angel was warm and alive, even if they were in the middle of London Below and easy pickings for the Sewer Folk, or the Ratspeakers, or whatever terrifying nonsense that this bloody city had to offer. They really did have to move, if only to get back Above.

Aziraphale stroked his scaled head, careful and deliberate. They were definitely going to die here.

Crowley listened to the fog. The fog sounded like hundreds and thousands of imps. The fog probably  _was_  hundreds and thousands of imps. Imps from another universe; they’d followed Islington. What a mess. Typical Michael; took out the figurehead but forgot the soldiers. What the hell did you even do with that many imps?

That was most definitely a Lucifer problem, and not a Crowley problem. The only Crowley problem was getting Aziraphale out of here. That was definitely a Crowley problem.

“Hey, angel,” he murmured. “If we go back Above, I can get you cake.”

Aziraphale made a disgruntled noise, but otherwise didn’t respond. That was definitely weird. Something was seriously wrong, if Aziraphale was refusing cake. What even _was_ this? Something in a hymn?

“Aziraphale, really. Where did it hurt you? You look fine.” Besides the black eye and the missing tooth, but those things were superficial.

Watchdog’s head perked up. “Awooooo!” she said, delighted. Her imp struggled free.

From the mists came Tracker and Slasher, sniffing the ground. Trixie was sitting on Slasher’s back, holding tightly. Just behind the dogs was Lucifer, with Chloe’s arm around his shoulders. She was limping. Crowley coiled so he could sit up straighter. Lucifer’s wings were half-spread aggressively. It made something in Crowley’s little serpentine heart quail.  

“Chloe?” he asked, concerned.

Chloe looked at him, and there was something—wrong. Her eyes were haunted. “Crowley,” she said softly.

“What happened?” Crowley gasped.

“The imps took her,” Lucifer snarled. His eyes were glowing, just a little, with rage, and his wings shifted, a threat display, though not aimed at Crowley. “They tried to possess her, but they couldn’t, thanks to what you did to her necklace. So they dragged her off. To play[7].” He looked like he wanted to light the world on fire, like he wanted to snuff out every imp in this blessed fog. “I healed her.”

“Badly, I see,” Crowley said, dry. “Chloe, you’re limping.”

She shook her head. “I don’t—I’m sorry, but please don’t touch me,” she blurted.

“I wasn’t going to,” Crowley told her, flattening a little against Aziraphale.

“They didn’t really do anything,” Chloe added softly. “Mostly threats.” Her eyes darted to Trixie. “And they separated us.”

“They threw a beam at you and broke your leg,” Lucifer snarled. “They need punishment. _Now_. ”He looked ready to vibrate out of his skin with rage. His wings twitched, furious, and the imps around them, sensing Aziraphale and Crowley, and Lucifer’s wrath – three celestials and four Hellhounds – gave them a wide berth[8].  

Chloe swallowed[9]. Her brave face had cracks in it, and Crowley felt for her, he really did. He glanced to Trixie, who was slouching on Slasher’s back like Slasher was a big, cuddly pony and not a Hellhound [10].

“Where’s the other puppy?” Lucifer asked, teeth gritted.

Crowley blinked. He hadn’t even thought of that.

Well. What was one more monster running around London Below, eh? Only that monster was for his boss’ girlfriend who really, really looked like she needed some help.

“Awooooo!” said Watchdog, firmly, and the second puppy came galloping out of the mist.

Watchdog looked very proud of herself. Crowley hissed at her, pleased, and miracled another sack, and the other puppy darted into it. “There it is,” Crowley said, nodding to it. “Something’s wrong with Aziraphale, too. He’s all punch-drunk. I can’t make him move.”

Lucifer frowned at Aziraphale and frowned at Chloe. Above, three imps screamed down toward them, cackling. Chloe flinched violently, practically cowering into Lucifer. That was terrible to see, because Chloe was not the sort of person who cowered. Trixie whimpered and fell off Slasher. She hid next to her mum. Lucifer wrapped his arms around both of them, and flared his bladed wings aggressively. 

“Enough,” Lucifer growled, but the imps screamed away, cackling, not particularly cowed. He stretched his wings again, he changed his face, and then tried again. “Enough! All of you, enough! To the ground, now!”

The imps raged and raged, laughing. Another swooped down and Lucifer let Chloe go to swipe at it, hands red, red claws. Another shrieked down, and he slashed with his bladed wings. Another, but Watchie grabbed it, and another and another. Chloe whimpered, and Lucifer sliced one neatly in half with his wings, furious. The imps giggled and screamed taunts as they swooped up into the air. The dogs barked and snarled at them, but there were too many of them to fight like this.

“They won’t listen,” Lucifer growled. His face flicked back to that of a man like a switch. “I can’t banish them if they won’t listen.” He slashed at another one. “Why won’t they listen?” He clenched his fists. Chloe and Trixie looked petrified. 

There were a lot of imps. Thousands and thousands in the fog, screaming and laughing and taunting each other. Lucifer could probably subdue them by force, even that many, with Crowley’s help, for what it was worth, and the hounds. It would mean leaving Chloe, Trixie and Aziraphale vulnerable, though, and neither of them would do that.

“They’ve worked out that you’re the wrong Lucifer, probably,” Crowley called to him, over their laughter. He flicked his tongue, tasting sulfur, and had an idea. “Here’s a thought. You can’t banish them back to Hell without a door, right? And Elvis knows where the Lady Door is at the moment[11]. Why don’t you trap them? In a bottle or something.”

“They won’t _listen_ ,” Lucifer growled again. Watchdog batted another one away from Aziraphale. She was a good girl. “I can compel them, but there’s so many of them—they’re fighting. I could call up a Hellish army, but that’s a terrible idea and you know it.”

He wasn’t wrong. Belial Upstairs was the worst idea, and anyway, Belial had to take care of all those millions of imps Downstairs. It was a total disaster, Down There. But—that wasn’t the end of all ideas.

Crowley sucked in a breath. Oh, this was a good one. 

Once upon a time, not so long ago, he and Aziraphale had discovered that a ward done together, at the same time, rather than layered, was twice as strong, twice as unusual, than wards done individually. It felt like a warm blanket, and it kept Anyone they wanted out. Power of the occult and the divine, combined; they'd curled up on the couch in Aziraphale's back room that night, shivering and giggling with delight, the both of them. 

What about occult and human, willing and kind? Kindness and love didn't make imps. Imps made themselves, or imps were forced, in the other world. What might a willing, affectionate exchange look like here?

“Not you then.” Crowley jabbed his nose at Chloe in sudden inspiration.

“Me?” blurted Chloe. “I—I can’t—”

“You’re human,” Crowley told her. “You can do anything. Borrow a touch of the King’s power and they won’t know what to make of you. And you’re angry right now, I can tell. It’ll help. It’ll make them afraid.” You’re the Queen, Crowley didn’t add, because it would frighten her. You’re the Queen of Hell, you’ve more might than you know, and at first breath, those imps won’t know what hit them.  Human and the occult, combined, in love and trust and without cruelty or manipulation—that would be a first. The same and yet opposite of an imp. She would definitely be able to compel them. Who knew what that would look like, what kind of splendid power she might have.

Crowley was one half of a paradox, after all. He knew that sometimes, these things could lead you into unexpected places, and that real love wasn't a danger. Lucifer could never hurt Chloe, not intentionally, and these things had to be deliberate. 

“Chloe—you don’t have to—” Lucifer spluttered. Behind him, Tracker had stood up on his hind legs to catch an imp.

But Chloe’s eyes, before dull with fear, had hardened into diamonds. She was clearly still terrified. But she was also furious, and the fury was winning, and now she had something she could do about it. “S-show me how,” Chloe said, the bravest human Crowley had ever seen.

“Beatrice, come stand here,” Crowley called. “I can sit on your shoulders, if you stay close to Aziraphale. Watchdog will keep us safe.”

“Mommy—” Trixie blurted.

“I’m alright, honey. I’m right here. Go sit with Crowley.” 

“She’ll be fine,” Crowley told the girl cheerfully. This was somewhat negated by the imp that soared past him, caught by Slasher, and torn in two. “Promise. Just don’t want you to get any backwash. This kinda thing tends to affect people nearby. C’mere.”

Trixie slunk over. She sat in the muck, too exhausted to care, and plucked Crowley off Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale made an unhappy sound and sat up.

“Oh, now you’re vertical,” Crowley muttered from Trixie’s shoulders. Trixie patted his head and then turned to watch Chloe.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s tail, a nervous tic that had Crowley turning his head. He twined his tail around Aziraphale’s fingers, and then watched the King and Queen do their thing.

Above them, ten thousand imps howled and screamed. Watchdog growled a little puppy growl at them.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Lucifer asked Chloe anxiously.

“Just—just do it, Lucifer,” Chloe snapped.

Lucifer looked extremely unhappy[12]. He bent down, and he kissed her, soft and gentle and so tender it hurt to look at. He took both her hands, twined their fingers, and it was an ordinary, awkward kiss[13].

“Gross,” said Trixie.

“Wait,” whispered Crowley. “Just wait. They have to figure it out. It’s like a switch, and a bottle rocket; it’s different. Wait.” He was tense, except where he twined and untwined around Aziraphale’s fingers, gentle and playful as he could be. Something was seriously wrong with his angel.

The imps howled. Three more of them raced downward, sensing Lucifer's distraction, Aziraphale's vulnerability, Beatrice's fear. They were caught by various Hellhounds, and then five roared down, and then ten and then ten thousand. Trixie squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered, but they never touched her. Crowley closed his eyes too, and did what he could to keep them at bay. It wasn’t much; there were so many. The air turned black with imps; Crowley’s ears rang with the din. He kept them maybe a foot away. They howled and reached and howled, and it felt like the world had gone gray and pointless and listless, like they should all just lay down and die. The imps were jagged and starving and vicious. They were utterly foreign, and made of pure, unadulterated hatred, from a Hell far, far away, and they pushed at Crowley, screamed. He panted with the effort of holding that many back.

And then Chloe said, “No.”

Fingernails raked down Crowley’s spine and his eyes snapped open. Even Aziraphale shuddered. It did not feel like egg yolks, Crowley thought faintly. It felt like dust on his flesh, scratchy and itchy and filthy. Occult and human, joined in trust and gentleness: just as wrong on the senses as occult and divine. Go figure.

Color bled into the world. The London fog dissipated into a bright, blazing sunny day, utterly unnatural for London Below. Chloe had stepped away from a starstruck Lucifer, and her eyes didn’t glow red. They glowed blue. It wasn’t angel blue, not at all—it was all human, with just a little Hellish oomph. “I’ve had enough of you,” she said, low and calm. “You hurt me. You hurt Lucifer. And, most importantly, you hurt Trixie. You know what? I’m done. I’m done being afraid and I’m done being hurt. You belong to  _me_  now.”

From the ground, a large, plastic water jug grew like a sunflower. As Crowley watched, sigils started to cover it, bleeding like ink on paper, growing like vines. Organic. Alive. And--familiar. They came from Castiel's letter, he realized. A devil's trap, human magic, from another world. She must have read it again while they were gone and committed it to memory. He was entranced. She felt terrible on his senses, totally unnatural and scratchy, human and occult too close and too kind to each other. Even Aziraphale twitched. It was the kindness that made it awesome, in the old sense, and terrible. Everything about it was willing. She was no imp, consuming out of greed, or perversity, or rage. This was done with human love, and human urgency, and the human urge to protect, and that was—that was more than any imp could ever be, more than any demon could ever be. She was incredible.

“Get inside,” Chloe said. “And don’t come out.” A beat. “Now.”

Ten thousand imps screamed and howled and protested  _no no no_ but they were compelled. She was Queen. Hell had never had a Queen before, and this one wielded power unlike anything anyone had seen. She was human. In the end, so were the imps--two sides of the same coin; she was love and they were hate, and love could always overpower hate, any child knew that. Love and hate didn't belong to Heaven and Hell anyway; they belonged to humans. She spoke their language, more than Lucifer ever could. Angels couldn't wield love or hate, not really, but a human could. With Lucifer's might to bolster her, Chloe definitely could. The imps wailed, but they listened, and plunged down into the water jug like a waterfall, like a typhoon, and it took about ten seconds before every imp in London Below—in the world, maybe?—was in the jug, which sealed itself like a flower blooming in reverse. The devil's trap, that strange human magic, glowed with occult power and sealed itself. Black smoke roiled within, ensnared.

Chloe stood, staring at the middle distance, fire and dust and light. Her eyes shone bright, ephemeral and bloody mighty.

“Chloe?” Lucifer murmured, anxious. His eyes glowed, too, though they were red. “Darling?”

She turned to him. There was a long moment of silence, like she was debating something.

Then she walked to him, and carefully, carefully took his hand. She looked into his eyes. She smiled. And her eyes stopped glowing, but she was still the Queen. She’d be the Queen forever.  

“You’re magnificent,” Lucifer whispered, heartfelt and awed. He took her other hand, so they made a circle. 

 _Shall we dance,_ thought Crowley, and if he hadn't been a snake, he would have smiled. That was a hellova dance. 

“I—don’t understand, really,” she replied. Her shoulders were straight, and she wasn’t afraid anymore. “But—that was really something, wasn’t it?”

“ _You_  are really something,” Lucifer said. He let go of one of her hands to reach up and stroke her cheek. He stroked away some mud, and then tucked her hair behind her ear, preening her as best as he could. Every star he’d ever hung in the sky was in his eyes. That gritty, dusty feeling faded, slowly. Weird.

“They’re gone?” Trixie said softly.

“Yes, baby,” Chloe said, turning around. “They’re gone.”

Trixie raced to her mother. Unfortunately, she took Crowley with her. 

Aziraphale’s cry was wildly out of proportion. Crowley jumped off Trixie’s back and transformed mid-air. He staggered and knelt next to his angel. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale buried his face into Crowley’s shoulder and didn’t respond.

“Lucifer,” Crowley begged.

“We’ll call Amenadiel,” Lucifer said. “Okay? Once we’re back Above, we’re calling Amenadiel.”

 

 

 

_____

[1] Lucifer was kind of having a moment. He’d been on hunts before, many times. None of them had involved a missing Chloe, and a whimpering Beatrice riding on his back. He wanted to scream and rage and punish and tear Islington apart with his bare hands. He wanted more bloody dogs so this could be appropriately violent. He wanted eighteen hunter horses. His heart pounded in his ears, even though he was the devil and had no heart, and also was not human and did not need his heart. The world had gone a little red and hazy, and why the BLOODY HELL was this abbey so big and so confusing? He decided, viciously, that he despised London Below.  

[2] Aziraphale had been involved in making those. They’d eaten at the Ritz the night the last one passed. Crowley’d needed to do something big to compensate, but it was worth it. Aziraphale had been so pleased. Crowley hoped that he was alright.

[3] What he didn’t like was people coughing on him, but that was a different story. Not that he could get sick. It was still gross.

[4] Crowley was nostalgically miracling the ground solid for himself and Lucifer. Lucifer would be pissed, but his shoes wouldn’t be covered in muck. Crowley remembered when the banks of the Thames had looked like this. Generally speaking, London Below creeped him out, but the nostalgia factor was pretty good. London Above changed at lightning speeds for a celestial, and that was fun and exciting, but it was still nice to see an old pea souper now and again.

[5] Honestly. Aziraphale just bloody couldn’t hold on to that blade, could he?

[6] Michael would answer every prayer if he could, especially if they all led to battle! But he’d used up his Earth visits, and really only got this one because he stole it from Gabriel. He’d eaten as much sugar as he could manage, this go around, but it was never enough, really. He hoped he would see Aziraphale and Crowley on Earth again. Aziraphale looked terrible, back there, but healing wasn’t Michael’s area, not really. Simple things, like light and life, yes, but the sort of thing that made an angel’s face turn that gray color was beyond him. Islington deserved to lose this battle, he thought angrily. It deserved everything it got, for hurting such gentle souls as Aziraphale and Crowley.

[7] They couldn’t touch her really, but they could see her, unlike the little one, who was visible but who kind of flickered. Chloe Decker was easier to feel and frighten, and there were ways and ways to play without touch. It was ever so much fun.

[8] But not too wide! Might find an opening, and the human was tasty. The little one wasn't flickering anymore, either and she looked fun. It was better before, with just the human, though. Humans couldn’t fight back and also humans screamed. Better, better, better.

[9] She knew Lucifer would have already run off to punish those imps, if not for her. She wanted him to, but she was—she was too afraid to be without him right now, because those creatures wouldn’t dare come close to the King of Hell. She could see it in how they darted close and then flashed away – one at a time, testing. When it had just been her, she’d been engulfed. It had been the worst experience of her life.

[10] Slasher was extremely confused about this. Slasher was a simple sort of beast. His job was to slash. He slashed things, usually until they were dead, or weak enough that Killer could kill them. The Master said to carry the girl, so he did, but carrying things was not his function. He was not to slash her, ever, at all, not even once. Master’s orders, so he wouldn’t. But this was highly irregular.

[11] Elvis had no idea. Door did, though. Crowley was right: Door and Richard had fled, like sensible London Below citizens. They were currently in a bunker, in the House without Doors, which was ironically Door’s house. They were sharing a bottle of wine by candlelight and talking about how terrible angels were. If they were lucky, the four of them would kill each other. If they were unlucky, then everyone was going to die in an Islington-style flood anyway and everything became moot, so they might as well enjoy the wine. Richard and Door agreed, drunk, that Chloe and Trixie were lovely and could come live in the House without Doors, if all the angels murdered each other. For people of London Below, this was actually quite generous.    

[12] But he knew. He remembered Crowley talking about this, about paradoxes, and about how celestials made metaphysical bonds. Crowley wasn’t wrong, but Lucifer hadn’t touched it, the precious thing, too afraid to spoil it, to make Chloe aware of it, to frighten her. She did so hate occult things. Now he reached for it, warm and almost alive, and he hoped, hoped, hoped this would not scare his darling, brave detective.

[13] It wasn’t ordinary, Chloe thought, breathless. It was spectacular. Fingers twined, hands pressed together, the space between their palms grew warm like there were tiny suns growing between them and it was like—like the best scotch, like moonlight sonata on the piano, oh, oh wow Lucifer—


	8. Chapter 8

Getting back Above was kind of difficult. Transit between the two was not exactly commonplace, and bloody convoluted when you were hauling an uncooperative angel around, but they got there, humans and angel and all. Crowley managed to drag everyone back to Azirpahale’s bookshop in Soho, Watchie at their heels, followed by Lucifer, Chloe and Trixie. It was the safest place he knew. Tracker and Slasher they left guarding the front door, because like Hell was Crowley going to let them inside[1].

When the front door opened, the book smell, the dust smell, the home smell, made Crowley's breath come short. At the sound of the bell, Aziraphale shivered in his arms, like that meant something. Crowley hoped it meant safety, because that was what it meant to him. He put his forehead against Aziraphale's temple. "Almost there," he whispered. He started to drag his angel to the back of the shop. 

Just inside the front door, there was a windowsill. Normally, Aziraphale dusted that sill meticulously, because that was where the jar was, and the jar played an important roll in scaring away customers. Crowley knew about this, and so he'd ignored it, as he always did. 

When everyone else tromped through the front door behind Crowley and Aziraphale, Trixie flinched at the turquoise jar with a whimper loud enough to have Crowley turn his head back to her. Before he could explain, Chloe stepped up to it, her fear now apparently gone[2], and glared with all her might. Inside the jar, the imp called Sebastian raged and raged behind the glass, but it couldn't escape. Under Chloe’s stare, it flattened, as if bowing. Watchie growled at it, and the imp shuddered and curled up small.

"Is that--?" Lucifer asked as he passed it.

Crowley was too distracted to really pay attention, as he had one shoulder under Aziraphale's, guiding to a chair. Aziraphale's eyes had fixed on Sebastian with disturbing intensity. 

"Yep," Crowley managed, and he navigated Aziraphale away from the imp and toward his desk. Very carefully, he got the angel in the seat and then leaned on the desk next to him. He stroked a hand through Aziraphale’s feathers, straightening them. They were filthy, covered from the muck of London Below. As soon as everyone left, Crowley thought, he was going to fetch his dowel and fix them for real. “I’m just going to the back room,” he said softly.

Aziraphale’s face drained of what little color it had. “Don’t—” he said, rasping, “Don’t leave me alone. Craw—Crowley, Crowley, please. I don’t think I can hold on to it, without you.”

Crowley had no idea what he was talking about. “ _Sweetheartlovedarling,_ ” he said in Enochian, and finished in English, “It’s just the back room.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched. “And I call you—and I call you—” he said, like he was having problems remembering.

“You call me Sunshine, in Enochian,” Crowley said, too distressed to be embarrassed. “Because it’s ridiculous. It’s a joke. Mine is too; we were drunk and it was terrible and it stuck. Can you remember the rest?”

“ _Safaleri_ ,” Aziraphale whispered, but it was clearly difficult. Crowley preened the nearest filthy wing, worried.  

“I need to get help,” Crowley said plaintively. He shivered and looked around.

Lucifer and Chloe and Trixie were standing, bedraggled, on the other side of the desk. Watchie had flopped to her wet, muddy belly on the floor, panting and looking curiously at her new home. They were getting London Below river muck all over Aziraphale’s old, hideous carpet. He’d throw a fit if they touched his books with their filthy hands. Crowley fixed the feathers of Aziraphale’s alula, scraping off what mud he could, and he thought about what he could possibly do next. He didn't come up with much. Lucifer caught his eye.

“I can just pray to Amenadiel,” he said.

“There’s a summoning circle in the back room,” Crowley said softly. “If you don’t know where it is, you might get zapped[3]. But we can use it to _make_ him come down.” Answering a prayer was a choice, of course. Summoning an angel was not. Crowley was so beyond giving Amenadiel a choice, taking that risk that he might not show up, it wasn’t even funny.

Lucifer nodded. Crowley’s hand automatically went to Aziraphale’s coverts when he finished the alula, putting them back in order as best as he could without a dowel. Bits of dried mud flaked off to the floor, and Crowley hated that, he hated it, because Aziraphale, healthy Aziraphale, should be fussing over the filth. He hated mud and he hated being unclean; he practically demanded to be preened that time they visited Antarctica in summer, because it was empty and bright and they could fly about all they liked. They’d played in the surf like children. He'd complained of the salt and the sand in his wings for _months,_ and then had the audacity to murmur into Crowley's throat, late one night, that they should go back. 

He should be complaining, Crowley thought anxiously. He preened and preened the muddy feathers, wanting him to complain. He didn't.    

“Aziraphale,” Chloe murmured at last. She sounded a little choked up, like watching this was hurting her. “Can I sit with you, for five minutes, while Crowley goes to the back?”

Aziraphale looked at her. There was a frightening moment where there was absolutely no recognition in his eyes. “Your name is Greek,” he whispered at last.

He _would_ remember that. “Chloe,” Crowley whispered to him, and then thrummed quietly, but he was too frightened for it to really be convincing or comforting.

“Chloe Decker,” Aziraphale said, like he was realizing in a rush. “Yes. Yes I remember you. You’re—” His eyes darted to Lucifer. “And Samael, I’m--” He squeezed his eyes closed. “Crowley, do it fast,” he said plaintively.

Lucifer had gone rigid at the sound of his old name, but Crowley was long past being afraid of him, and too worried to be concerned at the affect of the old Angel Name, even though it was the kind of thing that could make you miserable for ages, depending on who said it and why. It was never pleasant, anyway, but Aziraphale obviously wasn't being an arse; it was clear that he genuinely couldn't remember. Crowley sort of shoved Chloe and Trixie at the desk, grabbed Lucifer’s arm, and he dragged him to the back.

The summoning circle in the back room was under a rug. The trick was not to walk on it, but Crowley knew where it was. He dropped Lucifer’s arm, got on one knee and yanked the rug aside with probably more force than was necessary. Lucifer made a small, impressed sound. Crowley snapped his fingers, and the appropriate candles appeared and lit themselves. He could practically hear Lucifer making a face at the miracle. 

Permanently etched in Aziraphale’s precise hand was a circle, ringed with Enochian. It used to be his direct line back to Heaven. Now, it made this very, very easy.  

“Amenadiel,” said Crowley, firmly, without any need of anything flowery. The candles blazed. 

“Brother,” added Lucifer, a little gentler. “We need your help.”

Amenadiel came in a flash, standing in the circle. He didn’t really have a choice, so he looked a little surprised about it. He also looked exhausted. “Brother,” he told Lucifer. “Now is not a good time; how on Earth did you summon me? I need to get back—there are— _serious_ problems in Heaven—”

“Aziraphale’s hurt. Or braindead or something I don’t know,” Crowley blurted. He’d spent all day--all whatever, time moved differently in Hell, Someone only knew how much time had actually passed - in Hell with Lucifer, talking eye to eye with deeply terrifying archdemons and now he had a Hellhound. Aziraphale was hurt. That was more important than being afraid. “Please help. You’re Angel Network. Please help.”

Amenadiel frowned. He looked at Lucifer, and then he looked back at Crowley. “Show me.”

Crowley let him out of the circle and beckoned. He darted past Lucifer, back to the main shop and Amenadiel followed him. Aziraphale was still in his chair, listless, while Chloe and Trixie were sitting on the desk. Trixie clung to her mother in traumatized silence while Chloe had taken one of Aziraphale’s hands in both of hers. She was speaking to him softly about the time he was injured by a Leviathan. Apparently, she, Aziraphale, and Linda had played poker in Lucifer’s penthouse while Crowley and Lucifer had run around London. That was a terrible idea, Crowley thought faintly; Aziraphale was a card shark[4].  

When he reached Aziraphale, Amenadiel frowned. He strode up to him and then knelt in front of Aziraphale’s chair. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looked at him, but his eyes were out of focus. He looked woozy, but when he looked up, Crowley caught his eye. Some color returned to the angel’s face; he mouthed Crowley’s name, and sat up straighter. Crowley’s heart pounded, but not in a good way.

“I know what this is,” Amenadiel said darkly. Relief made Crowley’s shoulders sag.

“What is it?” Crowley blurted. His voice was a little thick with desperation. 

“You told me to investigate this Naomi,” Amenadiel said, “And the holes to the other universe. There are holes in Heaven, though not caused by Islington.” He sighed. “Naomi has been creating them, I believe, to bring angels back to her world. Apparently, in Nightmare World, angels are a dying breed. It's affecting their Heaven; it's falling into disarray.” He looked grim. “It sounds like she had some kind of deal with Islington, though we still don’t know what it was. She’s been doing terrible things to our angels, brother, to make them forget our world entirely so she could steal them back to hers. Muriel is in critical condition; we got to her before Naomi could steal her, but she has forgotten nearly everything. Aziraphale looks like he’s been brainwashed too, but he’s fighting it.”

“But he was fine,” Crowley cried. “He was completely fine!” He was up and talking at the Blackfriar's abbey, tapping Crowley's foot and leaning into him playfully. He'd flown over the Atlantic on his own. He'd been a little jumpy, yes, in need of care and quiet, but nothing like this, not trembling and silent and terrified. 

“From what little I understand,” Amenadiel said softly, “Naomi can do this to her victims. She can give them a signal--phrase, or a song, like a sleeper agent, and upon hearing it, it will make the angel...hers. It's a delayed response.” He smiled, but it was sad. “It takes incredible strength of will to fight this, from what I’ve seen.”

“A sleeper?” Crowley asked. He knew what that was, of course. Over the long, long course of human history, he'd even worked with a few. _There is a fountain filled with blood_ , he thought. The creepiest hymn in the church. A signal? Like some--some human spy, some human organization, one of the horrid things humans did to each other? Done to his angel? He shuddered. “What were you supposed to do? Angel?” Now he turned to Aziraphale.

“Forget,” Aziraphale said dully. “Kill Islington. And then—go. I think Naomi had some….” his voice faded.

“Plan,” he added, into the horrified silence.

“Islington did,” Chloe spoke up. “Have a plan, I mean, for sure. It was—talking about it, I think, when it found us. It wanted Door, but when Door got away, and Aziraphale, you protected us--it went for you. It was pretty cryptic, in the abbey, or at least, I didn't have context. It talked about a hymn to remove Aziraphale's heart, and something about clean slates and warriors and invading Heaven. And Cherubs.”

The Cherubim were warrior-class angels, real guardians and fighters. Aziraphale had been one, before the Garden, before humanity, before he'd been demoted. Crowley knew that Aziraphale could be a formidable enemy, if he wanted to be. Most of the time, he just didn't want to be. An Aziraphale who forgot himself, an Aziraphale who was a clean slate factory-settings Cherub was—like a Samurai. He'd cut Crowley right down without even thinking, because Crowley was Evil, and that was what Cherubs were built to do. 

“You wouldn’t,” choked Crowley, staring at Aziraphale. She had tried to take his angel away, he thought with slow dawning horror. Revert to factory settings. Warrior Cherub, without any sort of love for Earth or books or pastries or Crowley. She tried to make him forget. 

“Never,” Aziraphale sighed, stronger than anything, himself without compromise. He looked deep into Crowley’s eyes, never mind the sunglasses, and promised, “Never, never, never.”

Except…

Islington had the signal, which it had to have got from Naomi. That didn't make sense, if one of the tasks was _kill Islington._ He did say that, right? Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s hair, not wanting to ask him, but this was important. “You were supposed to kill Islington, angel?” he whispered, to confirm. There was mud in his fair hair, too. Crowley tried to finger-comb it out, unsuccessfully. 

“ _I was,”_ Aziraphale said, and it was in Enochian, and that was chilling.

“English,” Crowley whispered, because a factory-setting Cherub would never speak English. Aziraphale blinked at him, puzzled. “In English, angel,” he added, gentle.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “Yes,” he said, loudly, in English. Crowley kissed his muddy forehead, a reward.

"Then why would Islington sing that hymn, if it would make Aziraphale kill it?" Chloe asked slowly. 

"Unless it thought the signal did something else," Lucifer finished. "It had to have got the hymn from Naomi."

"Maybe she lied, and betrayed Islington," Chloe said, following his thought. "It wouldn't use the hymn, otherwise."

Crowley watched them as he anxiously preened Aziraphale's feathers, horrified, picturing it. Useful, having an LAPD detective and her pet Satan around. Not as good as Sherlock, but the last thing they needed right now was bloody Sherlock, and they got there, in the end, anyway.

The signal would've made Cherub-Aziraphale, cold-eyed, clean-slate Aziraphale, stand up and slaughter Islington despite his injuries or his preferences. No way was that Islington’s plan, yet Islington used the hymn. Ergo, Islington thought the hymn did something else. Chloe was right; Naomi had betrayed it, and it never even knew. Whatever their deal had been, Aziraphale was clearly the linchpin. Forget, kill, and then go back to that other Heaven, an automaton, maybe. 

Except...

Except she didn't really bother to get to know Aziraphale at all, had she?

She really should have, Crowley thought with shocked tenderness. Aziraphale was just like Crowley: totally incompetent. It was baked into his factory settings. He was a terrible linchpin for literally every plan.  _He gave away his flaming sword,_  every time.

And, Crowley thought fiercely, that meant that he could beat this. 

“How do I stop it?” Crowley asked Amenadiel. “How do I help him?”

Amenadiel smiled at him sadly. “I don’t know,” he said.

Crowley’s breath caught.

“You said Castiel had dealings with her before,” Lucifer said softly, from his other side. 

“Screw Castiel,” Crowley snarled. Castiel and his bloody awful universe had done enough damage already. He walked right up to Aziraphale and put their foreheads together.

“You listen to me, Angel of the Eastern Gate,” Crowley told him, looking right into his eyes. “You have been my friend for over six thousand years. We stood on that wall together and we watched the first rain, do you remember? It bruised the flowers. You've been my more than friend for—I don’t even know, we don’t have an official date, but it’s been at least a few decades, by my count. You probably disagree. I don’t bloody care. I love you. You’re going to stay with me, hear? I don’t care what she did to you. I mean, I do, I really do, but it doesn’t matter. Okay? You can tell me all about it when there aren’t any nosey Kings of Hell or Archangels about. I will still keep you close and call you mine. You fight this, angel. Tell me how, and I'll help. Come home.”

He looked hard into Aziraphale’s eyes. He cast a demon’s blight like a fly fisher casts a lure.

The blessing was slow to come, but it came. Aziraphale blinked at him, confused, but that confusion faded, slowly, to surety, as the blessing and blight twined, a glorious paradox. They were a bloody pair, Crowley thought fiercely. They’d been together through literally all of history. If anyone could help Aziraphale regain his memories or re-find them or unlock them or undo whatever this terrible, terrible Naomi had done, it was Crowley.  

Crowley didn’t need to send a message to Castiel. He was a demon. He knew about brainwashing. He’d been around during both World Wars and everything awful besides, and that was human brainwashing. No way could angel brainwashing be any worse than whatever humans came up with.

Love. Love was the answer. Crowley was the worst, most human demon in all of Hell, because he had that in spades.

“Crowley?” whispered Aziraphale.

“It’s going to be alright,” murmured Crowley, running a hand through Aziraphale’s hair, thrumming at him. “I’ve got you.”

 

 

 

 

______

[1] Those who knew the neighborhood knew old Mr. Fell and his bookshop, of course. Mr. Fell, who was absolutely lovely provided you didn’t attempt to actually buy his books, or even look at them too covetously. The appearance of two ENORMOUS dogs guarding his front door, however, was a surprise. Talk about overkill.

[2] Chloe was FINISHED with imps. She was furious. They’d hurt her and her family once; never again. Compelling them was deeply creepy, but she was so damned angry that she just didn’t care anymore. She glared, and she didn’t care that she didn’t have Lucifer’s—whatever it was that they’d done—backing her up.

[3] Summoning circles, specifically activated, could, and indeed this one had, zap an angel back to Heaven. Inactivated though, they didn’t do much to hurt an angel; a demon however, even an archdemon like Lucifer, might get a good jolt. Crowley knew where the thing was, because it had been there for three centuries, and Aziraphale had been very considerate in that he’d tucked it in a weird corner. Still, Lucifer didn’t know that, and the last thing Crowley needed was a singed Satan right now.

[4] Aziraphale always won at poker. It was completely infuriating, and Crowley was certain that he was cheating somehow, but he had yet to figure out how. It wasn’t miracles, or any of that nonsense. It was some sort of Earth cheating, he was sure of it. 

Things Crowley didn’t know: Aziraphale could count cards. He found Crowley’s complete bafflement endearing. Just because you were an angel didn't mean you were a fool. Also, Crowley was very bad at poker.


	9. Epilogue 1: The Lord is Not My Shepherd

Lucifer kept that puppy at Lux for four days. The time wasn’t—right, to give it to Chloe, not after all that damned nonsense in London Below.

Clingy was the word Chloe used, mostly to describe the spawn, but Lucifer found that he was loath to leave them alone. He managed to spend one very unpleasant evening at Lux that ended with bloody Belial and his big, sad, moronic eyes. He stayed with Chloe after that. If she would have let him, he would have nailed a sign on her door that said NO DEMONS (except Maze and Crowley), but she shot that idea down pretty fast.

Too bad. Crowley wasn’t leaving London soil anyway, not any time soon, and Maze had called from Skid Row, saying she’d caught eight imps, three of which were possessing people. Normally she didn’t tolerate orders from Lucifer anymore, but this was Hell business, and anyway, Maze had never liked imps.

Chloe actually took time off from work, and Beatrice stayed home from school, so Lucifer stuck close because clearly they needed protection[1]. Demons and imps who were not friendly did not belong anywhere near his humans, especially his favorite humans. Chloe had been absolutely magnificent when she’d trapped – how many, who knew, thousands? – of imps, but she was still shaken. It was understandable. The whole adventure had been, in a word, terrifying.

Hell nagged at the back of his mind. Those holes weren’t going to close themselves, but he needed it certainly, one hundred percent safe, if he was ever going to convince the Lady Door to walk the streets of Dis. He’d heard from Belial[2] that they’d found Azazel, bewildered, covered in water and reeds from the Styx and telling stories of the other universe, so that was something. Poor old Azazel had not liked the other universe one bit, apparently. He'd somehow ended up on Earth, which he despised, and the state of his wings in the other universe had apparently given the old archdemon a fright[3].

But back where he was supposed to be, Azazel was competent enough to round up a bunch of imps, presumably, enough so that it might be safe for Door to go Down There. And Lucifer had to figure out some kind of hex, or something, some kind of rune or incantation to get Door in and out safely. If they found Asteroth, he could probably help with that, for a price. Maybe he wouldn't need her at all--but her parents weren’t in Hell. There must be some Opener, somewhere in Hell, right?

Lucifer pondered this, feeling dozy, because it was eight in the evening and Chloe and the spawn were curled up on his left side. It wasn’t late by any stretch of the imagination, but they were warm, and also his favorite humans out of all of them, and that was all he needed, really.  On the television screen, Ariel sang about how she wanted to be part of the human world. Lucifer sympathized.

“I do—have something,” he said softly, when the song ended. “For you. For both of you. It might help.”

“Help with what?” Chloe asked.

Lucifer sighed. It was—uncomfortable, for some reason, saying what he meant. He knew Chloe didn’t like to hear it. “With imps,” he said. “With Hell.”

He felt Chloe gulp and sit up. “What could possibly help with that, Lucifer? A tattoo from someone else’s world?” She gave an unhappy laugh. It was a terrible sound. He knew she hated this, hated being so frightened, and feeling so reliant. She knew how to order an imp about now, but that didn’t stop the fear, and she still needed him to create the paradox, for the real power[4]. Chloe should never feel reliant. Chloe was the most independent, bravest person he knew.  

“A dog,” Beatrice said unexpectedly.

Chloe blinked down at her. “What?”

“How did you know?” Lucifer asked.

“You mentioned it,” Beatrice said. “In the abbey. You said you got us a Hellhound.”

“Lucifer. A  _Hellhound_?” blurted Chloe, clearly horrified.

“They become what you name them,” Lucifer said, backpedaling. “You met Tracker, who is incidentally my best tracker. I’ve—more dogs than I can count, really, but there’s Hunter and Killer and Seeker and Slasher and Guard and whatever you want to call them. Their names are their functions. And they bind them to you.”

Chloe gaped at him, but he saw the change in her eyes as she thought about it. She’d met Crowley’s puppy, after all. Crowley’s Watchdog looked like a dog, and not beastly large and vicious, like Tracker and Slasher[5].

“Crowley named his puppy Watchdog,” Chloe said, slowly. “I thought it was kind of a weird name. She’s—a Hellhound[6]?”

Lucifer nodded. “And she’ll guard him and Aziraphale against everyone who might hurt them. See?”

“She—looks like a Doberman,” Chloe said.

“No, she’s a different kind of dog,” Beatrice said. She bounced. “Bigger than a Doberman. A fancy breed. What should we name ours?”

“Trixie,” Chloe chided. “Lucifer, I don’t know if I can—I mean, I work, I can’t take care of a dog—”

“Hellhound’s not a regular dog,” Lucifer said. “It’ll understand English, for one. No training. And you don’t technically have to feed them, though they do like it. It won’t piddle on your carpet, either. I brought you one of _my_ hounds,” he added earnestly. “Best of the best.” Only the best for Chloe, of course. Her pup’s dam was Killer. She was his best, and she produced the best pups.  

“And it’d be—what I name it,” Chloe said softly. “What if I name it Spot?”

“Well, then it’ll be spotted,” Lucifer said. “Waste of a good dog, that.”

“It changes—physically?”

“Yes. It will be whatever you want it to be.”

Chloe looked at him long and hard. She didn’t do well with the occult or the divine, but she was thinking about it, at least. “And it can keep us safe. From imps. And it won’t—turn on us, or bite us, or need training—”

“Absolutely not,” Lucifer said, horrified. “Hellhounds are staggeringly loyal to their owners. It’s written in their genetic code, Chloe. And they can most definitely keep you safe. Watchdog tore a whole legion of imps apart, and she’s only a puppy.”

Chloe thought about this. “I’d have to call it Protector or something,” she said slowly.

“That would work.”

“Jenny has a German Shepherd,” Trixie chirped. “Can we call it Shepherd? That’s kind of like protecting.”

Lucifer sighed. “Really?”

“Well,” Chloe drawled, a wry smile curling her lovely lips, because of course she knew where his mind went, “The Lord wouldn’t be our shepherd. Shepherd would be our shepherd.”

Lucifer felt his own lips quirk. He actually rather liked that, quietly sticking it to his dad, and with a Hellhound no less. “It would probably work. It’s more to do with intent, really. Do you—want the dog?”

Chloe frowned and visibly debated it. He wanted to smooth her frowning lips with his own lips, but he refrained because it was important that she thought about this. He was rather proud of himself for refraining; Linda said he had terrible impulse control. Anyway, the dog was new, and it would be something occult living in her house, so she might not go for it. He had a kind of depressing moment where he thought maybe he’d just name it and have a dog on Earth, if she didn’t want it.

But it also meant independence, for her, and for Lucifer too. He’d rest easier if she had it. The imps had frightened her terribly, poor love, but he couldn’t blame her – they had frightened him as well. She’d fought them back, of course, in a blaze of absolute, gorgeous, paradoxical glory. She’d trapped them all because she was incredible. It helped her in her waking hours, that she’d beaten them, but it didn’t stop the dreams.

He hated those dreams, when she had them. Who knew what those blasted imps had whispered to her? What kind of horrible things, the sorts of things that left her crying in the night? They had hurt her too, the horrible beasts, and he wanted to throw them down to the deepest, darkest depths of Hell for it. He wanted to punish them, to tear them to shreds with their own nightmares. He wanted to give them to awful, unjust Raguel, who would unmake in the most brutal way that could possibly exist, the worst punishment Lucifer could conceive of.

She was always so frightened, and Chloe was never frightened, not like that, not bone-deep terror. Nothing was allowed to scare her like that, not if he could stop it. He liked that she hid in his chest at night, but he hated her fear. She did understand what his deep, quiet thrumming meant, but in the dark of the night she listened, curled close, and was still afraid. Terrible beasts, imps. He had definitely made the right choice, outlawing their creation all those years ago.

In the back of his mind, something niggled. He really did have to go back to Hell. Not forever. But for—a month or two. Patch the holes, restore order, that kind of thing. Maybe he could make Belial a regent or something, to rule while he was away? Belial was stupid, but at least he was mostly sane. Azazel was too twitchy, too sensitive; he’d jump off the deep end as soon as someone called him “Regent of Hell.” Asteroth was still missing, and anyway Asteroth was a vicious sort who would set all of Hell alight just because he could[7], and Lilith wanted it too badly. Too bad no one would listen to Crowley, he’d be perfect, but he’d also wither and die Down There. Also, there was Hastur to consider. Lucifer was really going to have to do something about Hastur.

“Yes,” said Chloe, after her long, quiet deliberation. She swallowed. “Yes, yes Lucifer I really, really want the dog.”

“Yay!” said Beatrice. She bounced on the cushion. “And we’re naming it Shepherd?”

“We’re naming it Shepherd,” Chloe said. She turned big, hopeful eyes to him, and she was gorgeous, just perfect, and his heart tore at itself that she’d had to experience any of that. Imps and angels and London Below. That had been simply awful. He cupped her cheek.

“I have her at Lux,” he murmured. “I’ll fly. It’ll be quick.”

Chloe nodded. He kissed her forehead, because he couldn’t quite resist. Then he tore himself away from here and her lovely warmth and strode quickly out the front door[8].

The flight to Lux and back took roughly two minutes, all told, even with the squirming, ill-tempered puppy under one arm. He touched down again and strode back through the door, flinching a little when his two loves jumped.

“I can’t name her,” he said. He held out the dog, ugly and skinny and glowing. “You have to.”

“Oh—” Chloe said, looking doubtfully at the dog. It didn’t look very much like an Earth dog at all, and it did not look anything approaching cute. Even as a puppy, it looked positively fearsome, thin with protruding bones, and teeth that looked like fangs. Its skin was peeling, too, though it was perfectly healthy, of course.

“Just name her,” Lucifer told her. “She’ll change with the name. Promise.”

Beatrice was, somehow, more fearless than her mother, when it came to the occult. “Your name is Shepherd,” she said sternly, before Chloe could. “Your job is to take care of mommy and me, and keep away imps and other scary things that might hurt us, like mean angels. Only the mean angels, because Lucifer can stay, and Amenadiel and Aziraphale and Crowley. But you should growl at Michael.”

Lucifer chuckled.

Shepherd squirmed in his grip. She grew a little, and she definitely grew fur: black and brown and long, pointed ears with a fluffy tail. A tiny, furry German Shepherd puppy. Chloe let out a shocked breath.

“Oh—wow,” she said, uncertain. Lucifer strolled over to the couch and sat in his previously vacated spot. He deposited the puppy into Chloe’s startled lap. Chloe flailed a little, and so did the puppy.

“She’s yours now,” Lucifer said without preamble. “And she’ll keep you safe. Even at this age, she can take down an imp. Several imps. Promise.”

Chloe touched the puppy’s ear tentatively. It twitched and the pup looked up at her, all liquid eyes. Lucifer had to admit, earth dogs, or at least dogs that looked like earth dogs, were definitely more adorable than Hell dogs. “But she’s still—that other dog—underneath?”

Lucifer hummed. “Up for debate. Hellhounds aren’t angels. They aren’t pretending to be anything to blend in. They just—are.” He looked deep into Chloe’s worried eyes. “I would never,” he said slowly, “Introduce something that would harm you or your urchin. You must know that.”

Chloe sighed. She tugged on that floppy ear, and the puppy squirmed. “I do,” she said, “I do. I really do, Lucifer, but it’s hard to—” She took a deep breath, and then let it out. “You just gave me a Hellhound.”

“I did, yes,” Lucifer murmured. “One of my best. They really are incredibly loyal, Hellhounds. She will walk through fire for you, Chloe. And for the spawn. As would I.”

Chloe gazed at him, so warmly that Lucifer could feel himself start to shake a little, inside. She believed him. She believed him, and she trusted him, and she loved him. It was still hard to believe, even now, even when she kissed him and fixed his wretched feathers and it didn’t feel like razorblades[9].

The puppy nipped at Chloe’s fingers playfully, apparently snapping her out of her thoughts. She smiled. “Lucifer,” she murmured, eyes all soft and so blue he could almost swim in them. “Thank you.”

“You should be safe,” Lucifer said firmly. “She’ll keep you safe. Both of you.”

“I want to pet her!” Beatrice lunged. She scooped up the puppy and cuddled her, and it was a mark of Chloe’s incredible, invaluable trust that she did not jump or take the puppy back from her daughter. Lucifer wanted to shake apart inside.

“Hi Shepherd! I’m your new human!” The puppy yapped, but it sounded happy, especially for a Hellhound, so Lucifer let it lie. Mostly because Chloe was curling close in his arms, warm and safe, eyes on her daughter.

“My life got so odd,” she whispered. “Will I need to walk this creature?”

“Not unless you want to,” Lucifer said. “She really won’t piddle on your rug.”

“So you said.” She took her eyes off Trixie – more trust, more incredible trust—and smiled at him. In a quite playful undertone, she said, “I really love you, you know.”

His heart did a backflip. “Really? I wasn’t sure.” His tone was light, but wasn’t a lie, not really. He kissed her nose. “I love you too.” It was still hard to say, but it was worth it, for the way her eyes lit.

Together, they watched the spawn jump off the couch to chase the dog, and then be chased by the dog. Chloe tensed at first, but when it became clear that the puppy would never, ever harm her new master, Chloe’s muscles went loose. Girl and puppy wrestled, and never once did the Hellhound so much as break skin. They watched, and Chloe relaxed, and relaxed and relaxed.

It was going to be okay, Lucifer thought, relieved. They might all need some extra sessions with Linda, but it was going to be okay. 

 

 

 

________

[1] They did not need protection. Well, yes they did, but they couldn’t live on top of Lucifer forever. The truth was, Chloe couldn’t get Lucifer to leave after that one night at Lux, where he’d apparently talked to a demon he didn’t like. Chloe suspected Lucifer just liked being near. That was okay, because she liked him near too.

[2] Who had  _actually shown up at Lux,_ bedraggled orange wings and all. One of his bartenders had called him, and he’d raced from Chloe’s side in a panic, because an irritated Belial could burn the whole nightclub down without a care. Oh, he wouldn’t kill anyone, because it was against the rules, but he would do a great deal of damage, and he’d certainly hurt people.  He’d been baring his too-pointed teeth at the humans until Lucifer had shoved him into the elevator and demanded the report, which he’d given dutifully. Luckily, he hadn’t laid eyes on any of the humans belonging to Lucifer, because that could have been bad. Lucifer never wanted to subject any of them to the ridiculous power games he played in Hell, especially with old, stupid Belial.

[3] Azazel’s madness was very specific, very narrow, and it ran deeper than the Marianas Trench. In the early days, Azazel had refused to acknowledge the Fall at all, claiming to still feel Their Father’s light. This was rubbish, of course, but the more fanatical he got, the lighter, brighter his slate-gray eyes became, until they were a yellow to rival Crowley’s. He thought Lucifer was his God in the end, and he worshipped him. Still believing he was an angel, he never changed his name. This was extremely creepy, of course, but Lucifer couldn’t exactly get rid of Azazel; besides the whole worship thing, Azazel was sleezy but quite sane and quite competent, and the best general he had. It wasn’t like all the other generals in Hell weren’t totally off their gourd, too. If Azazel’s wings had been incorporeal in the other world, or otherwise somehow burning, he would have absolutely lost it. And that would have been bad for everyone.

[4] Lucifer adored the paradox. Lucifer had dreams about that paradox. Lucifer wanted to make as many paradoxes as the human and/or celestial body could handle. Totally different from sex, of course, but the way his heart pounded, the way his breath caught, the feeling of breaking the rules: the high was addictive, and just as good. And it meant he got to have Chloe close, in the circle of his bladed wings, which satisfied some squawking instinct he didn’t know he had. It made his restless heart settle in a way he couldn’t describe. Paradoxes were brilliant, and they should make more of them.

[5] Who were now back safely in Hell. Slasher, for one, was very glad. He loved his master, but carrying that child about was very confusing. Tracker hadn’t liked earth, either. Too many humans, the alive kind, had made his nose itch.

[6] Which explained why Crowley was inexplicably carrying a floppy-eared, adorable puppy around London Below. Chloe had been pretty confused about this.

[7] Though he was a good adviser, and brilliant for dealing with uppity factions who tried to rebel. There was always some sort of rebellion going on in Hell. Lucifer mostly left that to Asteroth, because quelling them was tedious. Asteroth was astonishingly clever, as well as astonishingly brutal. He also had terrible breath, all the time. The reason was a mystery that Lucifer had yet to solve. Was he eating something foul? He’d been pondering this for millennia. Please, Asteroth, eat a mint. 

[8] Crowley was lovely and he’d patched the wall before Lucifer could even call the contractors. Lucifer was pretty sure he’d put wards in there, too. He was a good fellow, Crowley, even if he was using Dad-given miracles like they were going out of style.

[9] Her dowel literally felt like sunshine and the precinct’s terrible coffee and he had no idea how she had managed that. The precinct’s coffee was the worst, and yet the dowel was still lovely. How was that even possible?


	10. Epilogue 2: Nightingales

The thing about Aziraphale was that he was exceptionally stubborn.

Crowley thought about this as he sprawled on a bench in St. James Park, watching his dog and his angel play in the grass. Watchie really, very badly wanted to chase the ducks, and Aziraphale kept redirecting her. Sometimes Aziraphale would hesitate, hunting-still, and Watchie would turn on a dime and fall to her elbows, tail in the air, a playful pose, and bark, bark, bark. She was a watchdog, and she was good at her job; she knew when Aziraphale slipped, and she knew how to call him back. These little blips were minor, anyway, and they were getting shorter and less frequent every day. Aziraphale was stubborn. He was never going to give in to some half-arsed alternate universe angel’s half-arsed plan. He looked soft and snuggly—and he was—but at the core of that was steel. He wasn’t budging, and all Crowley had to do was give him reasons to fight.

That was easy.

He gave him pastries and old books, sushi and took him to small, intimate restaurants, and Crowley curled up close at night. Every time Aziraphale smiled, or ate something particularly good, or kissed his temple or thrummed low and soft in the safety of the bookshop at night, was just one more victory against this blasted Naomi, against Islington. Some battles Crowley lost[1], but most he won. He was definitely winning the war.

Aziraphale liked to curl up under Crowley’s wings at night, which was a new feature, but he spoke in actual sentences, and he had opinions about things again. He got a little funny and still sometimes, but Crowley could break him out of it, often with human affection, a kiss or a song. Naomi couldn’t mimic human affection, after all, being an angel. Only big scares could make Aziraphale go glassy eyed and trembly. He was getting there.

Crowley thought about this, and he watched Aziraphale grasp his dog by the scruff of her neck and tousle her ears. Watchie wriggled with delight and lunged playfully for the toy in his hand.

Watchie had grown.  She was knee high at the shoulder, after three months, and she would get bigger. She’d be hip high at the shoulder when she was grown, far larger than a Beauceron. She’d be just a touch bigger than a Great Dane: enormous for an earth-dog but stunted in Hellhound terms. A full-sized hound just wasn’t practical for earth, particularly a full-sized King’s Hound, but Crowley liked big dogs, at least when they belonged to him. She’d grow if she needed to. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale throw the squeaky toy[2]. Watchie went racing after it, great, silly paws slipping on the damp grass. It had rained that morning.

It was an overcast day in London, but still summer, and warm enough that he was comfortable, sprawling on a park bench, gazing at his little family. Watchie scooped the toy up off the grass and bounded up to him with it, soft brown eyes bright and hopeful.

“Hello,” Crowley murmured as she skidded into his knees, “What’s this?” She put her head in his lap and chewed the rubber llama so it squeaked, gazing at him imploringly. Her tail wagged and he chuckled. He tried to tug the toy in her mouth. “Is this for me?” He tugged again. Watchie’s eyes danced with joy, and she tugged back.

“Watchdog!” Aziraphale called.

Crowley let go of the toy. “Where’s your angel?” Crowley asked. “Hmm? Where’s your angel, Watchie?”

Watchdog dropped the toy and bayed like a Hellhound. A bunch of the people in the park skittered away from the fearsome black dog without quite knowing why. Watchie turned tail and bolted for Aziraphale.    

Crowley watched Watchdog barrel up to Aziraphale, and he saw the moment Aziraphale went cold and tense. Too tense. That was trained Cherubim tense, I’ve-forgot-I’ve-been-demoted tense. Watchie veered off at the last minute, with a whine[3].

Crowley got up off the bench and jogged over.

His angel’s eyes were distant.  Aziraphale had never raised a hand to Crowley, not once over the course of this insanity, though he’d whispered in the night that the urge was strong. A factories-setting Cherub was built to fight evil, after all. If Aziraphale faltered, if he truly forgot who Crowley was, that fight would be more brutal than any they'd ever had, in their long, long history. It would also be the quickest, because Crowley would lose, utterly. But Aziraphale had always been the strongest[4] person Crowley knew.

Crowley walked right up to him and cupped his cheeks, there, in public, in St. James, without fear. Even drifting like this, he was certain that Aziraphale would never, could never hurt him, and anyway, Crowley could call him back. Watchdog whined unhappily.

“I may be right,” Crowley sang softly, looking deep into Aziraphale’s distant eyes, searching for him, “I may be wrong, but I'm perfectly willing to swear—that when you turned and smiled at me, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”

It was kind of like watching a sunrise, watching his eyes brighten again, watching him come back from wherever he’d gone. The song wasn’t any kind of signal or anything. Crowley picked a different one every time, or near enough, though in his heart of hearts Crowley liked to think it was an anti-signal, something to cancel out that horrible hymn. In reality, it was just a song from earth, and a song kind of about earth and earthly things, because he wanted Aziraphale to remember[5]. Crowley stroked his cheek, and he waited, and Aziraphale came home.  

“We haven’t gone to the Ritz in a while,” Aziraphale murmured at last, wistful. He knew the words to the song, of course. Aziraphale tended to be roughly a half century behind in literally everything he ever did, but the song was from the bloody forties. It was one of the reasons Crowley had chosen it.  

“I’m not an angel,” Crowley said, soft and amused.

“Yes, you are, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed. “Fallen or no. You’ll always be an angel, no matter what Heaven says. They’re a bunch of—of prats, anyway.” He smiled tremulously.

Crowley knocked his forehead against Aziraphale’s, exasperated and fond. He didn’t argue, because though he was angel stock, he’d be loath to give up his demon breed, even after everything. Aziraphale meant it as a compliment, and his head was all scrambled anyway. If he was using that to fight off some inner-Samurai who wanted to destroy all evil without even understanding what evil meant, so be it. That was a discussion for when Aziraphale was back to his best. Ridiculous angel.

“They are at that. What was it this time?” He pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale pressed back and swallowed. “Fire in her eyes. Oh, Watchdog, I’m so sorry.” He pulled away and looked down at the half-grown puppy. Watchie wagged her tail and licked his fingers. She glanced at Crowley and grinned, tongue lolling, as if to say,  _Found my angel, found my angel!_  

“She’ll forgive you.” Crowley kissed his forehead. “And so will I. Up to stay out, or want to go home?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Can we sit?”

“Course. Watchie, find us a nice tree, hmm?”

She was off like a shot, delighted to have a task. She sniffed and raced, pointedly ignoring the other dogs in the park because she was on a mission. They barked at her anyway. 

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, and they strolled after their dog. Watchie found them a tree, of course[6], and Crowley miracled a blanket—also some wine—and they sat. Aziraphale needed the contact more than he cared that they were in public[7]; he curled up and pressed close to Crowley’s side. Crowley wrapped both arms around him. Watchie sniffed around their legs, then collapsed on the blanket, her chin on Aziraphale’s knee, soft brown eyes bright with concern. She sighed.

“Good girl,” Crowley told her, and her long silly tail thumped.

“Sing the rest,” Aziraphale asked quietly. “You’ve a lovely voice.”

Crowley’s voice was just a touch scratchy, by design, because it was a little more human that way, and a little more interesting. He still had perfect pitch, of course, just like Islington, just like Lucifer, just like Michael and Raguel and Amenadiel. He didn’t protest, but he did lean back against the tree, pulling Aziraphale with him, getting comfortable.

“That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air. There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square—”

Aziraphale sighed, ribs expanding and contracting, and then all his muscles went loose at once. He put his head on Crowley’s shoulder, so he could feel his unnecessary breath, and then he thrummed, low and quiet and in time with the song. Crowley didn’t stop, but his breath did hitch, a little.

Thrumming was good. Thrumming was complicated, but it was always good. Here and now it meant he was feeling safe, out in the open, somewhere besides the bookshop. That was progress. And he _was_ safe, Crowley thought furiously. He was in London, London Above even--the better of the two by far. He was in the city that was home and humanity and _theirs_ , and that horrid Naomi from that other world would never touch him again, not if Crowley had anything to say about it. If she came near or tried anything again, he would _bite her_. 

And Islington was off Earth for good, as far as he knew. He knew for sure that Islington wouldn’t be moving or doing much of anything for the next few decades. He’d bitten the bastard himself, after all. They wouldn't have to worry about Islington for a good long while. 

 “--The moon that lingered over London town,” Crowley sang quietly, just for Aziraphale. A little giddy, he nuzzled at Aziraphale’s temple. At their feet, Watchdog gave a great, gusty sigh. Her tail thumped, just once. “Poor puzzled moon; he wore a frown; how could he know we two were so in love the whole damned world seemed upside down—”

Crowley felt the brush of Aziraphale’s lashes against his neck as he closed his eyes and sort of sank into him, making angelic love-sounds, safe-sounds, and he felt, finally, at peace. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE END

_____

[1]It turned out Cherubim had instinctive, violent reactions to regency silver snuffboxes. Who knew? Aziraphale used to collect them. Was it the silver, Crowley had wondered, after his poor angel had calmed enough to curl up with a book, or the remains of the snuff? He peered at the melted lump, turned it this way and that. Or just the feel of it? Aziraphale hadn’t melted any of his old boxes. Just the new one. Why had he collected them, if they made him want to smite? Weird. Crowley now knew that if he ever ran into an army of Cherubs, he could just throw snuffboxes at them and watch them freak out. Unless this was a weird Aziraphale thing, in which case Crowley would look like a moron, but that didn’t really matter so much because an army of Cherubim meant death was imminent anyway. He’d definitely throw snuffboxes at them.

[2] It was llama shaped, and Watchdog had picked it out at the store herself. She LOVED it and thought that none of her littermates ever got weird rubber things to chew on. Crowley was the best master ever. The plants in his flat disagreed, but she growled at them, and then they stopped. Stupid plants.   

[3] Watchie adored her angel, she really did. It was strange, because deep down somewhere in her hindbrain she knew the angel was her enemy, except he also gave her pats and threw the ball. People who threw the ball were good, so this was perplexing. Something was wrong with him, though, and it made Master Crowley so, so sad. The angel went away sometimes. Sometimes she could call him back, and she got extra scratches. Sometimes she couldn’t, and he went cold and distant and she hid because that thing, whatever it was her angel turned into, that thing could smite her dead. She looked up and saw the smiting thing and cried for her master to bring back her friend.

[4] Read: stubbornest.

[5] And also he was a sap and generally picked love songs; sue him.

[6] She may or may not have scared away the people sitting there.

[7] Which was saying something because Aziraphale was more British than all of England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! I hope you guys enjoyed :D 
> 
> But actually I just wanted to say THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH. I have never had this kind of response to anything I've written before, and you are all so kind and wonderful. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart; I had such a blast writing this and interacting with you all!!


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